


love you till my dying day.

by whisper57



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Character Study, M/M, POV Mickey Milkovich, Tattoo Artist Mickey Milkovich, canon divergent after 5x12, i love mickey and this is all about him getting the good things he deserves, nothing else, the one where Sammi gets arrested and mickey doesn't and everyone lives happily ever after, this is a very self-indulgent fic sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisper57/pseuds/whisper57
Summary: So, for once, Mickey Milkovich is just going to let himself be.or: the fic where i make sure mickey gets the happiness he deserves.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 147
Kudos: 375





	1. running, walking, sitting, sleeping.

He drinks.

He just sits on the sofa in his darkened living room, and drinks while staring straight ahead at nothing. He isn’t even crying, which both is and isn’t a surprise. _Is_ because he’s heartbroken (that word seems so, so small. Heartbroken. It’s not enough in any way. More like: heart-shattered, heart-broken-into-a-million-pieces. Or any other exaggerated, dramatic variation of the word) and _isn’t_ because he’s a Milkovich and since when were Milkoviches _pussy_ enough to let tears drop from their eyes? Since when were they pussy enough to even let tears _form_ in their eyes? Since when were they pussy enough to let something affect them enough? Since a tire iron poking him in the back while he slept in his bedroom, Mickey thinks. Or no, maybe since the start: since Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich, period. Because much as he’d like to, he can’t say he wasn’t always like this, this soft motherfucker. Sneaking into his mother’s room every night when he was little, cuddling as close as possible to her, soaking up her affection like a fucking sponge, (he is not gay enough to use a plant metaphor, thank you very much. Or maybe he is. What-the-fuck-ever.) and being the closest to his mother was sufficient proof that he’s always been like this.

The fact that he isn’t crying is also not a surprise because. Well. Because he thinks it’s simply not physically possible for him anymore. He keeps going back in his mind, thinking about how he’s spent the last few weeks and he realises all he’s done all that time is cry. Crying while Ian disappeared to make that porno, crying when he found out Ian was cheating on him, crying when Ian disappeared with Yev, crying when he found Ian, crying when Ian was admitted, crying while waiting to meet him, crying when he met him, crying after meeting him, while avoiding him, when learning about how they had to stay with this for the rest of their lives, after Ian was arrested, when he disappeared with Monica, and crying when he heard Ian say those words. Crying, crying and crying some more. So really, if he’s all dried up, if his body isn’t capable of generating any more tears, he can’t really blame anyone or anything.

But, when Mickey thinks it, he wonders. He wonders why he cried so much. Was it really a surprise that Ian was cheating on him? He wishes it was, but he wasn’t, for a multitude of reasons that his tired brain can’t list right now. So why did he cry? Why was it a reason to cry that Ian left and left and then, finally, asked Mickey to leave too?

He thinks about how sad and shocked he was when he heard _uh, 30, 40 years?_ and can’t quite suppress a snort. It’s funny, really, how he’d thought they’d have to live with this disorder for a long, long time. _For the rest of our lives_. Funny, how he’d thought _they_ , instead of just _Ian_. How he assumed he’d be a part of those years, that those _30, 40 years_ will be spent with him by Ian’s side. Funny how he’d known where he’d be in four decades, and with whom. Funny how it’s not funny at all.

It was all very normal, _calm_ , what happened after that _Fuck_ left his lips and after that shout of _Mickey!_ He’d ran. He’d ran until the cops found Sammi with that gun and arrested her. After that, he'd walked. Walked slowly and _calmly_ back home, took off his coat, made his way to the kitchen, found every bottle with even the tiniest bit of alcoholic content and made his way to the living room. He sat on the sofa, got comfortable, and started making his way through the bottles. He’s still on that sofa, with no clue about the time. He knows he’s been in this position long enough to see the house slowly become darker and darker, until it was engulfed in it. If Mickey put in enough effort and attention, he thinks, he could find a metaphor in there somewhere for how his life has been since he came out, but he can’t right now. So. That’s a missed opportunity.

He snorts, again. _Missed opportunities._

The thing, though, is that Mickey stopped running as soon as Sammi was arrested, but for some reason, it feels like he's still running. Even sitting on the sofa, _calmly_ , he feels like he’s running. Or maybe he just wants to. He doesn’t know, anymore.

Mickey thinks that when he says _calm_ , he means _numb_. He’s not sure, though.

There’s a mess of bottles near his feet. He can’t see them, but can feel their presence there. So, putting down the bottle of vodka (beer? whiskey? It could be fucking orange juice for all that he’s actually tasted anything) in his hand, and side-stepping the bottles, he makes his way to his bedroom. The good thing about childhood homes is that you know every corner, every crevice, every single fucking part of it as well as you know your name, which is pretty fucking convenient for the state Mickey is in now since it makes it easier to navigate the journey to his room.

There’s the streetlight streaming in through the curtains, but it’s all dark otherwise. Mickey takes off his clothes and lays down on his bed in his boxers. After some deliberation, for no reason in particular, he takes off his boxers too and lays back on the bed completely naked, closing his eyes. There’s that thought of when he’d last laid in this bed, of why he’d left this bed today. Something rises in his chest, makes its painful way to his throat. He swallows it away though.

His hands are on top of each other, on his stomach. There are no thoughts in his head right now. It’s like his brain is looking after him and keeping everything at bay, just for now. Mickey imagines someone in his head, holding every thought—every memory—at bay, in the cradle of their arms. That someone eventually becomes his mother, and he lets out a choked sound. His chin wobbles a little. He takes a deep breath and everything is gone again. His shifts to the side, and feels the tide of sleep coming in to drown him in it. The thought of that reprieve comforts him.

The last coherent thought he has is this: _I’m just so fucking tired. I’m so fucking tired, Mom._

And then he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. okay. um. i have literally zero clue what the fuck happened here. i blame taylor swift. i was listening to 'my tears ricochet' by her and i thought of how well it fit mickey and then. this. (you should listen to the song if you like this fic because it's the inspiration for it. actually, you should listen to it anyway. it's, for lack of a better word, perfection.)
> 
> i have this really vague outline of what's going to happen in this story, hence the sparse tags. i'll update them as i start writing more. 
> 
> i just... really love mickey and i really want him to be happy so fuck everything else.


	2. not yet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which mickey cleans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's just one point with a homophobic slur in it, because it's, sadly, canon-typical language. so this is a heads-up.

Admittedly, the whole ‘Drink anything and everything with alcohol in it’ thing that he decided to do last night, wasn’t a very good idea.

Mickey comes to that realisation when he wakes up the next morning. Or afternoon. It could literally be either, since he _still_ doesn’t have the tiniest clue as to _what fucking time it is_. The point, though, is that it’s really fucking sunny and there’s too much light that his, _supremely,_ hungover brain is strictly comfortable with.

He’s laying on his stomach, and he makes the decision to move his head a little bit so his face is fully buried in the pillow.

Then he prays for the sweet relief of death.

There are very, very, pressing things he’s not dealing with right now, he knows that. But he also has this thought of _Not yet,_ which he fully agrees with.

—

He lays in that position for a few minutes and then, when the dryness of his mouth and the general vibe that he’s barely human that his body is giving off gets too much, he makes his way to the washroom. Once he’s checked off that from his hastily made, messy, mental checklist—that his brain came up with to deal with this hangover _right the fuck now—_ he makes his way to the kitchen. There, he locates a glass (miraculously) and chugs down three full glasses of water, and feels moderately better. Then he goes about hunting for an Advil, or literally _anything_ , that’ll make his objective of _Feel Like An Actual Fucking Human Being_ easier to accomplish.

Once he’s downed some pills, Mickey decides to (fucking _finally_ ) check what time it is. He tries doing that by the… angle of the sun or whatever-the-fuck, but yeah: no such luck. Which leaves him with the task of finding his _phone_ : something he’d very much like to never see again. But needs must, and all that.

Mickey stands in the middle of the living room, with his hands on his hips, and scans the house for the possible locations of his phone. After putting some thought into the matter, and very careful avoidance of _other_ thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him, he makes his way over to his coat that’s lies on a chair and looks through it.

He’d do the whole _cheering_ thing upon finding it, if not for the fact that he pretty much hates the sight of it. It’s like a summary of how he’s spent the past few weeks, condensed in this small, metallic form. Even holding it in his hand, he feels an echo of the _panicsadnessangerfrustrationhelplessness_ and all the million other emotions that he felt every time he had to use it in the last few days. So yeah, he hates it, but just like with everything else in his life, he soldiers through and checks that it’s 2 pm in the afternoon. He’s only mildly shocked to find that out: he doesn’t really care much about _time,_ at least, at this point.

He orders food from a Chinese place nearby, and then lies down on the sofa with his phone in his hand.

Wanting to turn on the tv, but lacking the required strength and will to do so, Mickey just unlocks his phone and looks through it. Of course, he opens the messages app, because he seriously hates himself, and stares at the name _Ian_ at the top of the list of messages. He swallows down a wave of that ominous _something_ and hovers his thumb over the message thread, wondering if his self-hate is potent enough to make him read all his desperation fuelled messages. Turns out, it’s not, which is very shocking information, and by _very shocking,_ he means it elicits a twitch of his eyebrows and that’s all. Guess that’s to be expected with the whole _numb_ thing he’s got going on currently.

He locks his phone again and just lies on the sofa. There are thoughts, feelings and memories, that he feels hovering somewhere, just waiting to come to the forefront of his mind and have him confront them, but they don’t come _now_ and that’s all he can ask for, really. He knows they’ll come eventually and overwhelm him: knows it by the slight tremors he feels in his hands and his body periodically, by the heavy feeling in his chest. But there’s that _Not yet_ again, and that’s that.

—

His food arrives (and _yes_ , he does spend all the time waiting for it on the sofa, doing nothing, so what?) and he sits on a chair at the kitchen table and eats. The silence bothers him, his isolation bothers him, but those too are feelings that are just hovering somewhere away from the forefront of his mind, and so he just eats in the deafening silence of the house.

The fact that his house is all kinds of dirty, however, is something that _does_ demand his attention, for some reason. For as long as he eats, the _need_ to clean keeps poking him mentally, and as soon as he finishes his food and dumps the containers of it, Mickey decides to deal with it. The only problem is that with all this _mess_ he has no fucking clue where to start. So, he just sets about finding as many garbage bags as he can in the house, because he’ll need a _whole fucking lot_ of those, no matter where he decides to start.

Once he finds the garbage bags, he nods to himself resolutely, and begins cleaning the fuck out of his house.

—

It takes hours to just clean the kitchen (as much as he can anyway). He’s already dumped the random trash strewn about the house in two bags, and placed said bags near the back door. He knows he can’t deal with his bedroom right now, so he makes his way to the washrooms and deals with _them_ instead.

Once those are done, he decides to leave Mandy’s, his, and the living room for tomorrow and makes his way to his brothers’ bedrooms. Upon seeing the state of those, though, he just shuts the doors to them and makes the decision to forget that they’re in the same house. No way is he cleaning all _that_ shit.

He checks the time again to see it’s just gone 10 at night and, goes to the washroom to take a shower, because he fucking reeks. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything that will give him the opportunity to think, and the shower is basically the best place to do nothing _but_ think. But he’ll just have to trust his powers of compartmentalisation and repressing his emotions, and take that damn shower.

Fortunately, he only has one moment of feeling choked up. The shower is probably the shortest of his life, and after just cursorily drying himself, he goes to his room. There, he puts on a pair of boxers, falls down on his bed gracelessly and wills himself to go the fuck to sleep.

Surprisingly, his body (or brain or whatever is in charge) listens.

—

The shitty thing about going to bed early is that you wake up much earlier than you wanted to. It’s not like there’s a time that Mickey _actually_ wants to wake up, but still. Being awake at 7 AM wouldn’t be something he’d be happy about, even _if_ he didn’t feel like there was simultaneously a gaping whole in his chest _and_ a heavy weight placed on it. So.

Mickey just lays on his bed, then, and stares at the ceiling and, for an as of yet unknown reason, thinks of his Mom. It isn’t something that _never_ happens and so, is new or whatever, but it still feels kind of weird. He feels like ever since That Thing happened, he’s been thinking about her a lot. Or whenever he thinks about anything, she’s there.

Maybe, Mickey thinks, he misses her.

And that, too, isn’t new. He’s always missed her, even if it may be a shock to people. Mickey feels like he’s the only one in his family that misses her the most, or misses her at all, period. Mandy might be the only other one. Mickey thinks they were the closest to their mother out of all of Terry’s spawn.

As _faggy_ as a notion it may be, according to Terry, Mickey knows he was somewhat of a _Mother’s Boy_ , as they say. He’s never been ashamed of it. He loved his mother too much when he was a kid to feel bad about it. But he knew, even that young, that showing that in front of his father would've been a surefire way of getting the shit beaten out of him. So he’d learned to hide it from Terry and tried to act like he didn’t want to follow his mother around everywhere like a duckling. Mickey’s sure his father saw through it, and maybe that’s why hated him in a way he didn’t hate his brothers and Mandy (among _other_ reasons).

And really, it was kind of nice. It was like a secret between his mother and him, when she’d come to his room at night and tell him a bedtime story when everyone else went to sleep. He remembers how she’d run his fingers through his hair, or brush it away from his forehead. He remembers how she’d so, so gently but firmly kiss him on the cheek, or the forehead, and whisper an _I love you_ there, before he went to sleep. He remembers how, on the rare occasion that the house was free of any hostile presences, they’d sit together to watch the tv, and his Mom would cuddle him as close to her as possible. He remembers being so, so happy and so, _so_ warm in those moments, and feels a single tear slip down his left cheek.

When she’d died, he’d been especially careful to lock that part of him away, so that no one could take it away from him. He didn’t want anyone to know how much his mother meant to him: how she was _everything._ It was his secret and he wanted it to keep it that way, because it was too special, too precious to expose to the world. A world in which _Terry_ existed, and a world that would’ve undoubtedly found a way to ruin the pure, happy, beautiful memories of his mother, which were the only good things that he’d had. His mother had loved him with all her heart and he’d loved her similarly, and that was something Mickey wanted to protect at all costs. 

She’d been the only good thing in his life, even after she died, until… well. _Not yet._

—

After he’s done with his breakfast of pop-tarts and coffee, Mickey makes his way to the living room and finally turns on the tv. He settles on a sports channel, and increases the volume to a level that won’t be annoying while he cleans. He feels like this is progress. How, exactly, it’s progress he doesn’t know, but it is. So. Fuck off.

He starts cleaning the living room, with the tv serving as background noise. It’s hard, not because he’s tired from yesterday or anything, it’s just that… he feels that _something_ rising in his chest, and being more powerful than all the times before. But he pushes through it and continues meticulously cleaning the room until he’s done with it, and feels a sense of accomplishment, despite that unbearably heavy feeling in his chest.

—

It’s as he’s making his way to Mandy’s room that it happens. The fact that he lasted two days is something he’ll celebrate at some point in the future.

He won’t ever know what happens _exactly_ in that moment, but he’s leaving the living room and he sees _something_ and then he’s having a flashback. He sees Mandy and… and he sees _Ian_ sitting on the sofa in the living room and whispering to each other, and giggling in-between. He sees them when they were 15, when one was a mess of too much makeup and colourful hair—but still beautiful—and the other a scrawny, heavily freckled one, with his red bangs falling all over his forehead. Mickey sees himself make his way to the kitchen to grab a beer, and pretend to be extremely annoyed by the scene in-front of him, and turn to go back to his room, grumbling. He sees himself sneak a look at _Ian_ and be met with green eyes already looking back at Mickey: a blush rises to his cheeks and after holding eye-contact for a few seconds, he returns to his room and slams the door shut.

It was a mess really, that time of his life. He was this extremely closeted, 16-year old thug, who couldn’t take a shower if his life depended on it. The arrangement with _him_ had just started and they did nothing much more than fuck like the _very_ horny teenagers that they were. It wasn’t good, or perfect, by any means. Everything was pretty fucking shitty all around.

All of that’s true, but what’s also true that thinking about it now makes Mickey miss that time so fucking deeply it overwhelms him. That _something_ that kept rising and rising, finally does and he gasps with how much sudden, but deep, _sadness_ he feels in that moment. His eyes blur with rapidly forming tears, and as much as he tries to blink them away, they don’t go away. Instead, they fall, and make their journey down his face.

And then he’s fully crying, _sobbing,_ somewhere between his living room and kitchen. He slides down the wall nearest to him until he’s sitting on the floor, with his legs spread in front of him. An _Oh God_ slips out of his mouth, followed by a litany of _fuckfuckfuck_ as the—the _everything_ washes over him. He pulls his legs close to his chest and puts his elbows on his knees, pushes his hands into his hair and fucking _pulls_ at his hair, completely overwhelmed.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. He _left_. He left _me_. Fucker, _left me._ Son of a bitch _broke up with me_. Shit. Shit. He’s _gone,”_ he whispers to the empty room, to his house, to _himself._ Says it again and again and again until it _finally_ gets through to his head, and then he’s crying harder like the fucking dick-whipped, piece of shit that he is.

Apparently, this isn’t enough because then he remembers all the other things that happened. He remembers the cheating, and how it happened when Mickey thought they were fucking _happy_. He balls his hands into fists and lets out this noise of so much anger mixed with so much _grief_ that he couldn’t describe properly if he tried. He gets up from the floor and makes his way to the kitchen and throws the first plate he sees on a wall and fucking _screams._

He howls, _We were happy we were we were,_ while still crying, again and again until his throat his raw and he can’t scream anymore. This time he sits on the floor of the kitchen and holds his head in his hands and just _cries_.

He keeps asking himself if they were happy, if Terry wasn’t here, if no one was threatening them, then _what was wrong?_ A mean, ugly, part of his brain keeps answering that question with _You weren’t enough_ , and he wants to deny it, wants to say that he was enough and that Ian did love him, but he can’t. So Mickey lets that ugly voice fill his brain, as memories of everything that happened before and after he came out flash before his eyes, and wash wave after wave of heartbreak and pain and sadness and anger over him.

Mickey sits on that floor, in the middle of the day, and opens up the motherfucking _floodgates_ to everything Ian-related inside him and lets it all out. He sits there, completely overwhelmed with the worst combination of emotions a person can feel, and remembers: he remembers that tire-iron poking him in the back, he remembers what happened after. He remembers day after day of fucking in backrooms and abandoned buildings and baseball fields. He remembers letting himself _feel_ things. Remembers _I need to see you._ He remembers the gunshot to his knee. Remembers _I miss you_ and that stupid hand on that stupid glass and that _stupid fucking smile._ Remembers that arm around his shoulders that was shrugged off, that night in the field when all his brain could think was _kiss me kiss me kiss me i won’t stop you this time please just fucking kiss me for once._ Remembers sex that became more each time it happened. Remembers _you’re nothing but a warm mouth to me_ and remembers screaming at Ian inside that _why don’t you fucking understand? why can’t you just understand this fear that never leaves me? you’re supposed to fucking understand._ Remembers the regret at those words, the sadness he didn’t let himself feel when no one came to visit him in juvie the second time.

Mickey sits on that kitchen floor and cries and remembers _missed you_ and _really?_ Remembers Ned’s ugly fucking face and remembers running in an alleyway and feeling so fucking _alive,_ remembers _He isn’t afraid to kiss me._ Remembers soft lips against his own and that awestruck smile like Mickey kissing someone could be the greatest thing that happened to them, and remembers the exhilaration he felt at that knowledge, and cries harder. Remembers _was i just invited to a sleepover?_ and stolen glances and more kisses and more sex that was so much more than it had ever been before. Remembers the ugly morning after, and skips over it. Remembers the abandoned buildings and hurting so fucking much _himself_ and then hurting someone he never wanted to hurt. Remembers the wedding and remembers the broken _Don’t_ and the _Don’t what?_ Remembers the months after that were filled with so much darkness and then a lap dance and being worried and scared, but _still_ so fucking happy. Remembers _you’re here_ and remembers _you happy now?_ and being bloody and bruised but still feeling so fucking incredible and brave. Remembers the _Leave me alone_ and the helplessness and fierceness and love because _he’s family._

He thinks about the _worryworryworry_ mixed with the _lovelovelove_ for so many weeks after. Remembers the sheer happiness at being pulled in by his tie and being kissed on the cheek. Remembers being exhausted trying to keep up, but still so fucking happy. Remembers thinking it was mutual, and clenches his hair tightly in his fist and sobs. Remembers the suitcases and the fear. Remembers that ugly club and _He didn’t leave alone_ and _I did a porno_. Remembers the days after and a mumbled _Sorry._ Remembers eyes that didn’t see him and crying, even then. Remembers _I’m sorry I’m late_ and pills and suicide lists and _uh, 30, 40 years?_ Remembers the dugout and being beaten up just for _caring_. Remembers plans for dates and MPs and sitting in that room watching Ian’s face while his own family talked about his craziness, and wanting to hug him and protect him and take him away. Remembers being left _again_ and running and saying those three words that should’ve meant something, but meant nothing at all.

He thinks about all that and cries and cries, until the tears dry up.

—

Mickey gets up from that kitchen floor while it’s still daytime outside. He guesses that’s one pro of waking up early: even if you have a major breakdown that lasts what feels like hours in the middle of the day, you still have plenty of hours till it’s nighttime again.

He’s, surprisingly, very level-headed. He methodically cleans up Mandy’s room, and then he goes to his own bedroom. If it’s because of the crying session he had earlier, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t feel much of anything when he starts cleaning up his own room. He doesn’t feel sad, he doesn’t feel any pain, as he’s sorting out all of his shit mixed with Ian’s. He puts away Ian’s things in a garbage bag and puts said bag in Mandy’s room and shuts the door. There’s some irony in doing that, and he’ll try to appreciate it when he doesn’t feel like… like how he’s feeling now.

He goes into the washroom and steps under the shower. Yesterday, there had been that _something_ in his chest and he’d been keeping everything deliberately at bay. Today, he feels nothing at all: he’s numb in the truest sense of the word. So, he just stands under the shower and cleans himself up. He doesn’t move out quickly, takes his time instead. When he’s finally done and in an old t-shirt and boxers, he emerges into the living room, and sees that the tv is still on.

It’s still early, and he feels kind of hungry, so he orders a pizza. While he’s waiting for the food, he flips through the channels and settles on one of those superhero movies that are all the rage nowadays. Mickey’s _into_ the movie, to his horror, and is intently watching it when the doorbell rings, signalling the arrival of his pizza.

He resumes watching the movie with his pizza, actually _glad_ he didn’t miss much. By the time the movie ends, he’s eaten half the pizza and downed a bottle of beer, and is sleepy as all fuck. It’s actually nothing short of a miracle that he switches off the tv, puts the rest of the food in the fridge and the empty bottle in the trash. He, _also,_ brushes his teeth and mentally pats himself on the back. As much as you can mentally pat yourself on the back when you’re an emotional wreck and just want to go to bed.

Once in his bed, though, Mickey manages to stay awake for a few minutes and _thinks._

—

Mickey thinks about how Ian looked at him. He thinks about how Ian used to look at him, even when he was jumping off of walls. He remembers how Ian used to touch him, and can’t find it in himself to say that Ian didn’t love him at all. It would be so easy to do that, but when has life been easy for Mickey? He knows that Ian loved him, without any doubt, and that makes everything so much more painful.

What he _doesn’t_ know, is how much. He doesn’t know if Ian _still_ does, or if the disorder somehow replaced the love he had for Mickey. He doesn’t really know how the disorder works. He suspects that even the _Gallaghers_ don’t know how it works, they only know Monica Gallagher and that’s that. Mickey thinks about what lies ahead for Ian and his heart _aches._

He thinks that he could go over to the Gallagher house now and demand to talk to Ian. He could go and tell that fucking idiot how stupid he is, how _strong_ Mickey’s love for Ian his: how completely consuming. Mickey could tell Ian to let him be there for him and to just trust him, that Mickey understands that this whole situation is pretty fucking terrifying for Ian, but that doesn’t mean he has to push Mickey away. He thinks he could tell Ian that if having him as a romantic partner is too much, Mickey could just be Ian’s friend: someone who’s just there for Ian and someone he can rely on.

Mickey thinks about the love he has for Ian, how he knows that’s it’s the kind of thing that lives forever and ever: _infinite_. He thinks about how he _knows_ that he’ll never feel the same way about anyone else, that he doesn’t even _want_ to. He’s Ian’s, completely and irrevocably, period. He suspects that he accepted being a bitch for Ian much more quickly and easily than he accepted being gay. He knows that if Ian were to call him back to him, he won’t be able to resist. He’ll get his heart broken and shattered and have its pieces scattered all over the Gallagher front porch, again and again and again, if it meant being with Ian.

So, here’s where he is at this point: He loves Ian, will always be his, and he knows that Ian loved him too, once. He knows that Ian breaking up with him was more about his own issues with his disorder, than it was about Mickey. There’s this part of him, a part he doesn’t know what to do with, that is firm in its believe that they can’t _not_ end up together. All that though, doesn’t change the fact that he’s heartbroken, that he’s been hurt in so many ways by the one person he loves more than anything.

_Ian hurt him._

As painful as it is, it’s true, and it’s exactly why he’s the mess he is right now. And he’s tired too. He’s been through so much in the past few months, hell in the past few _years,_ and he just… can’t. He could go to Ian right now, but he can’t because he’s exhausted, and even more, he doesn’t _want_ to, right now. And the knowledge that he doesn’t want to go to the one person that he loves the most in this world, makes him want to cry again.

So, Mickey decides, he’s going to cry. He’s going to let himself be sad and heartbroken. He’s going to fucking lick his wounds, and drown in self-pity, until he decides he doesn’t want to anymore. Because he knows himself, and he knows that he won’t let himself wallow in his sadness for long, so he’s going to allow himself to feel things for as long as he wishes. He’s going to eat takeout, and watch stupid superhero movies, and do whatever he feels like doing, even if what he feels like doing is crying on the kitchen floor in the middle of the day. He’s going to think about his Mom and let himself miss her as much as he wants to, until… until whatever’s supposed to happen happens.

Terry isn’t here and neither are his siblings. Ian left him. Svetlana and Yevgeny are… somewhere. There isn’t anyone here. It’s just Mickey, now. For who knows how long. Maybe forever.

So, for once, Mickey Milkovich is just going to let himself _be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's 4k+ words worth of mickey angst. :) 
> 
> there'll probably be people in the next chapter. idk. also, i didn't plan on posting this soon (not even a day later). but well. i did say this was all self-indulgence, so yeah. 
> 
> if anyone's reading this, i hope you liked the chapter. if you didn't, i'd love some constructive criticism. don't be mean to me though, or else I'm going to cry. :)


	3. tears, thoughts and groceries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which groceries are bought.

This one time, when Mickey was maybe 6, he saw his parents kiss.

He was at the kitchen table, having breakfast, as he watched the various men of his family prepare to go out on a run. Mickey was still young enough to wish that he was old enough to go with them, too. Some of it was probably that childish belief that his cousins were all going on this big _adventure_ that he was missing out on. Most of it, though, was about his father. He’d wanted to go with him, even though he could still feel the sting from the cut on his bottom lip that his father had given him. He’d still been naïve enough to want to impress his Dad, somehow; had craved any form of appreciation from him. Going on a run with him—even if he didn’t know properly what a run even _was—_ had seemed like the perfect opportunity for that father-son bonding that he so desperately wanted, so that his Dad would love him.

(Remembering those feelings, now, makes Mickey realise that his childhood was sadder in more ways than one.)

Despite all that though, he was also giddily happy because everyone was leaving and it was going to be just him, Mandy and his Mom, left at home. They were going to, at least, have a whole day with just them at the house, and six-year old Mickey really could not think of anything _better_. (Snickers and Poptarts were a close second on that list of his favourite things.) He knew his Mom would take them out to get ice-cream, and let Mickey and Mandy play in the neighbourhood park while she got some _things_ from this creepy guy who always sat in a quiet corner of the park, far away from everyone. When he’d asked, his Mom had said that they were important _things_ that she really, really needed. Mickey had known they were _drugs_ , even if his knowledge of them was also limited, and he thinks his Mom knew that he knew too. But she hadn’t said that word, so Mickey hadn’t said anything, either. He’d just nodded at her with serious eyes, and then broken into a wide smile when she’d bent down to kiss him on the forehead. (Okay, so, Snickers and Poptarts were a close _third_ on that list. He kind of really _, really_ loved his Mom’s kisses.)

Before everyone left, Mickey watched his Dad pull his Mom to him and kiss her on the mouth, _hard_. His uncles whistled, his cousins groaned in disgust, and Mickey just wrinkled his nose, because _gross_. Those were his _Mom and Dad_. Ugh. But he didn’t understand why his Mom didn’t look very happy with it, either. He was quick to look down to his bowl of cereal, though, when his Dad turned around to leave. Dad didn’t like it when Mickey looked at him for no reason at all.

When everyone, _finally_ , left the house, his Mom came to sit next to him on the table. They smiled at each other: Mickey wide, and his Mom softly, lovingly. Mickey resumed his breakfast, and was deeply engrossed in thoughts of which ice-cream flavour he wanted for later, when his Mom spoke, surprising him.

“Make sure you never have to kiss anyone you don’t want to, Mikhailo. Okay?”

Mickey was, first of all, deeply grossed out. Because he was 6, and the thought of kissing was, again, _gross._ Secondly, he was also deeply confused. Because, _what?_

Those two emotions must have shown on his face, because his Mom huffed out a small laugh and pulled him onto her lap.

“Don’t worry that beautiful little mind of yours, Mickey. I’m just saying, when you get older, be careful with who you kiss, and who you let kiss you. Okay? Those things are special. Don’t let just anyone take them. Understand?” she’d said while smoothing out the slight frown between his eyebrows, and cupping his chubby cheeks in her hands. Then, she’d looked at him seriously, waiting for his response.

Mickey didn’t _really_ get what his Mom was trying to tell him, or what she wanted him to say back, but he thought he knew a _little._ So he’d nodded, and said, with all the seriousness his 6-year old self could muster,

“Yes, Mom. I _understand_.”

HIs Mom had smiled wide, and with _so_ much love, at him, and Mickey had felt extremely proud of himself for apparently saying the absolutely right thing.

—

Mickey thinks that he gets it now, completely, what she’d tried to make him promise that day. He thinks he understood it, completely, that day too, and that’s why acted the way he did, years later.

He wonders, laying in his bed the next morning while staring at the ceiling, what she’d think of the person he decided to give his kisses to. If she’d be happy that he’d listened to her that day, and been careful with this big decision. If she’d think he had eventually chosen the right person.

He remembers an awestruck face in a van, and realises he knows what his Mom’s answer would be.

He lets a tear slip. And then another.

—

After his morning crying sesh (he has _crying sessions_ now, jesus christ), he makes his way to his washroom, makes the mistake of looking up at the mirror, and just _stares_.

He looks, in a word, horrifying. It’s not like he ever thought he’d be signing any modelling contracts in his life (he knows who _could_ and… nope. Not going there today), but the face that stares back at him is awful even by his standards. He’s paler than usual (who would’ve thought _that_ was possible?) and his eyes are swollen and red-rimmed. He looks _sick_.

He looks _lifeless_.

Mickey thinks that this is how you probably look when you feel like dying inside, when you constantly feel tired. Maybe this is how Ian felt in those weeks after Mickey came out. Or maybe he felt worse. He probably felt worse. Mickey has been exhausted by the events of the last few weeks, _and_ he just got dumped by the love of his life which is why he feels like this. Ian felt this—felt infinitely _worse,_ enough to not even be able to get out of _bed_ —for seemingly no reason at all. He went to sleep—high on the knowledge of what they’d just survived, high on their rounds of sex, high on _them,_ and with his arms tightly wrapped around Mickey—and then he’d woken up the next morning feeling the way he had, refusing Mickey’s touch, refusing Mickey’s _presence_ like he couldn’t _stand_ the thought. Like there wasn’t anything worse.

If he didn’t feel all dried up, Mickey would cry for the boy he loves. Because he’s just that: a teenage boy who’s being made to go through all this hell, because of something as stupid as _genes_ , by his own _brain_. He’d cry for the teenage boy he loves, who he isn’t allowed to _help._ Who he isn’t welcome to care for.

Mickey grips the edges of the sink tight and takes a deep breath. He can’t _stand_ the thought of Ian hurt, of Ian sad, of Ian scared. He _can’t_. He’d rather not think about Ian at all, than think about how much pain he’s probably in, right now, or will be. God, he hopes there’s no pain for Ian in the future. Mickey can’t stand it, can’t think about it, because there’s nothing—absolutely _nothing—_ that he can do for Ian, now. There’s literally no way for it to be made any clearer to him that Ian doesn’t want his care, or his love. If the fists didn’t prove it, the break-up definitely did.

So. He takes a deep breath, sends a prayer to a God he doesn’t believe in to _please let him okay, please let Ian be okay,_ and goes to shower.

—

Mickey finally gives some thought to the fact that he hasn’t left his house in about three days when he opens he fridge to find the sad, half-empty, pizza box from last night, and a few bottles of beer. And nothing else.

He groans, throwing his head back to the ceiling, thinking about how he’ll have to _go out_ and _buy groceries_ and, probably, _see people._

He’s not expecting to see Ian, or anything like that—though that _is_ a very real possibility, and Mickey curses himself for choosing to fall in love with, and then be dumped by a guy who lives so fucking close to him—it’s just that, _people._ He can’t, for some reason, stomach the thought of being around them, even if they’re complete and utter strangers and don’t give two fucks about him or his existence.

(He again thinks about Ian’s adamance to not be around people, when he felt low, and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.)

Mickey brings his head back down, and upon closing the fridge door, leans his forehead against it instead. He takes a deep breath. Then, he considers how to both, not starve himself to death, _and_ avoid going out like it’s the motherfucking plague. There _has_ to be a way.

He opens the fridge door, again, and takes out the pizza. He puts two slices on a plate, heats them up in the microwave. In a move that _seriously_ fucking surprises him, both eyebrows raised and all, he forgoes the beer, and instead grabs a glass of water. Then, he takes a seat at the kitchen table, begins eating, and, as is the norm for him post-being-dumped-by-the-love-of-his-life, _thinks._

It’s the first time, in possibly _ever_ , that he hasn’t left the house in so long. Mickey thinks back and realises that, for one reason or the other, he’s _always_ left the house at least once a day. Even if it’s just out to the front porch, he gets out. He wonders if it’s the absence of his father’s ugly presence, the lack of pregnant, Russian hooker wives that he wants to desperately avoid or annoying siblings, that he can finally _be_ in his house without constantly wanting to be _out_ and _away._ He wonders if it’s the fact that he got dumped and is sad. Maybe both. He shrugs to himself. _Does it even matter, now?_

So. Post-having-his-heart-completely-broken Mickey Milkovich’s life: superhero movies, crying sessions, drinking _water_ instead of beer, and becoming a hermit.

_Huh. Interesting. And severely pathetic._

_—_

He’s lying on the sofa, and is very busy _not_ watching his tv, when the door opens and in comes Iggy.

Mickey stares at him with depressed, dead eyes. Iggy stares back with his perpetually stoned ones.

There’s not a lot of difference between how they look at each other.

Mickey turns back to the tv he isn’t watching and Iggy goes somewhere. Mickey considers asking his brother where he’s been for… however many days he hasn’t been here, and immediately dismisses the idea. On the very, _very_ limited list of shit he actually cares about anymore, his never-been-sober-for-as-long-as-Mickey-can-remember brother’s life is notably absent.

Somewhere behind him, Iggy whistles before making some comment about the cleanliness of the house, that Mickey either hears and immediately forgets, or doesn’t hear in the first place. Eventually, Iggy makes his way over to the living room with a can of beer and slumps down on the arm chair.

There’s silence for a beat and then,

“What’s up with you?”

Mickey makes a sound that definitely does _not_ , in any way whatsoever, imply that he has any interest in talking to his brother, as a reply, and continues staring at the tv.

“What?” asks Iggy and Mickey closes his eyes for a moment before opening his mouth and saying,

“Ian dumped me.” And. _What the fuck?_

He did _not_ plan on saying that, _at all._ He was going to tell his brother to fuck off and leave him alone, or some variation of that exact sentiment, but this? _Fuck no._

“No shit? When? Last time I checked, you were dumping your load down his throat,” Iggy says, after making a shocked sound. Or as shocked a sound you can make when you probably don’t even know what year it is, because of the amount of drugs running in your body.

Mickey makes a face at his brother’s choice of wording, and, fully prepared to tell him to fuck off this time, says: “Yeah. Well. That didn’t last very long after he kidnapped Yevgeny, had a psychotic break, got arrested, went into a nuthouse, got arrested _again_ , ran away with his mother, only to come back and break up with me on his front porch. Apparently, telling people you love them and taking care of them isn’t something you do in relationships.”

He has to take a deep breath after… whatever the fuck _that_ was, and finally sits up and looks at Iggy. Iggy who looks _very_ sober than he had been earlier, and a little shocked at his outburst. It takes him a few moments to probably process all that, and form a reply.

“Huh,” his older brother tells Mickey eloquently.

And. Mickey honestly did not expect much else.

“Yeah. ‘ _Huh’_ , alright,” says Mickey.

“That must suck ass, little bro. You _were_ pretty pussy-whipped for him. Or dick-whipped. Whatever,” says Iggy.

Mickey snorts. _Dick-whipped_ , that’s one way to put it.

“You need anything? Want me to round up some guys and break his knee-caps? Colin and Joey would be up for it, too. We could also try and look for some good gay guys in the area. Get Orange Boy fucked out of your system?” Iggy offers.

“What?” Mickey sputters, “No. And no. No to all of that. And don’t call him that.”

“Okay?” drawls Iggy. “Then what do you need, bro? Anything.”

Mickey thinks, and, “Groceries. Food. Don’t wanna go out. Like, at all.”

Iggy looks like he did not expect that answer in any way, which: fair. But also looks kind of understanding. He recovers quickly, and nods. He gets up immediately, which startles Mickey, and is out the door before Mickey can fully process what the fuck just happened.

—

An hour or so later, the door opens, and Iggy comes in with _a lot_ of bags and dumps them all in the kitchen. Mickey is, to say the absolute _least_ , surprised as all fuck.

He’s touched, too. More than he could probably ever say.

“Thanks,” he says to his brother.

Iggy nods and ruffles Mickeys hair. “No worries, little bro. I get it.”

Mickey just looks at him, and feels something in his chest loosen. Feels a little of that heavy feeling, lighten. He looks at him, and allows himself to bask in the knowledge that he has a brother who cares for him enough to get him groceries, instead of calling him a pussy, for not being able to do so himself. He looks at his brother, and remembers his mother, and feels his heart fill with love. Then he says,

“Wanna play Halo?”

—

Iggy leaves after he gets a call from his girlfriend. After he suggestively wiggles his eyebrows at Mickey and grins his dopey smile and says _Going to get laid, tonight, it seems._ After they’ve played Halo for hours and ate the mac-and-cheese that Iggy’d brought and Mickey had cooked. After he’d pulled Mickey in for a quick, but tight hug, and ruffled his hair, and said _You’ll be okay, Mick. i_ know _it._ After Mickey had shoved him away playfully and he’d thrown back an _I love you, too, bro._

But before Mickey had smiled to himself, and cried a little. Just a little. Before Mickey started feeling like he could breathe a little easier, now.

—

Mickey lies in his bed that night, after dinner and a shower, and thinks about his family. Thinks about the love his mother had for him, for all of them. Thinks about Mandy, about his brothers. Thinks about how they'd all come together at the drop of the hat, to break knee-caps, bust skulls- _no questions asked-_ whenever one of them asked. Thinks about them, somehow, creating light in the darkness that was the Milkovich house. Thinks about how no one will ever get how they work. How much they love. How much they care. Thinks about how they managed to protect their ability to love, even under the constant threat of Terry's overwhelming hate. He thinks about how much he loves his family, how lucky he is, despite it all. 

He thinks about Ian, about the love he has for him. How, even now, it makes him feel complete and whole, how it’s a part of him so deeply and intrinsically. He thinks about how he can’t imagine a life in which that love isn’t present, isn’t flowing through his veins, isn’t making him feel like there’s a string in his chest that is tugging him towards Ian, all the time. He can’t imagine a life where he doesn’t yearn to be surrounded in the tight, comforting warmth of Ian’s arms.

Mickey misses Ian. Misses him and misses him and _misses him._

It makes his heart ache. Makes his chest tighten. Makes a few stray tears slip down his face as he rolls over onto his side, places his hand under his head, and closes his eyes to sleep.

But, he thinks for the first time, it’s okay. _It’ll be okay._

Iggy said so. Iggy knows it.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love iggy. i'm sorry if the dialogue was ooc or something. i tried. 
> 
> thank you for the comments, and the kudos!


	4. mickey milkovich, badass southside thug.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which books are read, and doodles are... doodled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: there's a mention of corrective rape and abuse. nothing too heavy, just a passing comment.

Two days.

It takes Mickey two whole days after Iggy’s visit to be able to leave the house.

Honestly: What the fuck?

—

The morning after Iggy’s visit, Mickey wakes up feeling infinitesimally better. Which is honestly _far_ more than what Mickey had expected. So. A win.

He drags himself out of bed, goes to the kitchen, browses through all the things that Iggy brought him yesterday, asks the God he doesn’t believe in to bless Iggy, makes himself a breakfast of cereal and coffee, and sits on the living room sofa to eat. After he finishes his breakfast, he washes the dishes (he doesn’t even recognise himself anymore) and then again makes his way to the sofa, and contemplates what the fuck to do now.

Because, really, Mickey isn’t the kind of person who can just spend days doing nothing. He doesn’t think there are any people who _can_ do that. There was this teacher of his in middle school who had once said something about how, even though we think we want unlimited holidays or shit, we can’t _actually_ just relax and do nothing at all, for a long period of time. Like, it goes against our nature or something. Mickey doesn’t know if that’s actually true or not, or if it’s just a load of bullshit that his teacher told them just to discourage them from doing that exact thing—nothing, that is—but, he thinks it’s at least true for him, personally.

He’s always been the kind of person who _does_ things. A man of action or whatever. Whenever life has thrown something at him, he’s just tried to figure out the quickest way to _deal_ with it, and make it go away. Mickey doesn’t know if having that quality naturally led him to being the one who looked after his siblings, even though he was the youngest after Mandy, or if he developed it after a lifetime of being the one who took charge of everything. It doesn’t really matter, though. The end result is the same: he _does_ things.

This whole thing of _processing your emotions_ and _letting yourself heal_ isn’t something that Mickey has ever done. He hasn’t even ever _imagined_ doing it, considering it too pussy a thing to do. Life fucks with you? You deal with it and say _what next, bitch?_ It’s a survival thing that, he thinks, everyone in the Southside does. People in his neighbourhood, or people in neighbourhoods or situations like him, don’t get the luxury of taking some time for themselves. If they started _taking time_ for themselves to _process_ the various shit life has thrown at them, no one would do anything. Ever.

So yeah: what he’s been doing these past few days? What he’s still doing? Not a thing that he does. Hell, he didn’t even do it when his father forced him to fuck a whore in front of his boyfriend to “fuck the faggot out of him”. Mickey snorts thinking about that line. He wonders what his father would think _now_ , after he sees him moping around his house because his _boyfriend_ dumped him after he told said boyfriend that he loved him.

That’s why Mickey doesn’t know why he’s being like this _now_. He doesn’t know why, after his middle-of-the-day-pathetic breakdown, he told himself that he was going to cry and feel sad and hurt for himself for as long as he wanted to. He doesn’t know why he couldn’t even _consider_ the thought of going out, and had to ask his brother to get his fucking groceries so that he didn’t die of starvation. He doesn’t know why he still has thoughts in his mind that tell him to find as much alcohol he can and get blackout drunk and never, ever leave his house again: why he still has the urge to self-destruct.

Maybe, Mickey thinks as he changes his position on the sofa so he’s now lying on it, it’s because there’s no one in his life anymore.

It’s probably a very depressing thing, and if he told someone, they’d probably pity him or feel bad for him. But really, it’s not very saddening for Mickey. It’s kind of freeing when he thinks about it, actually.

When he was just a child and was abused by his father, he didn’t really have the freedom to cry, or express his pain and hurt a lot because Terry was right there, and him catching Mickey crying would’ve been disastrous, to say the least. As he got older, he got used to compartmentalising the things his father did to him, and at that point, it wasn’t anything new (which, again, is probably something that people would find very sad) so he didn’t even think about it much, as fucked up as it sounds. It was just a _thing_ that happened in his life, that he had no control over. So, what was the point in thinking about it?

When his mother had died, Mickey had been _devastated._ But even then, _Terry was right there._ Even the thought of Terry being kind enough to let his children mourn the death of their mother is laughable. So yeah, beyond quick, quiet cries in his bathroom, or in the darkness of his bedroom at night, he couldn’t really sit around and _process_ the fact that his _mother had died_. He couldn’t let himself really, truly, feel the pain that losing the most important person in your life—the only person in your who actually loved you and _showed_ it—brought. Besides, there was Mandy to look after and be strong for: she was his baby sister, and also the closest to their mother, aside from him.

And—again—despite being the youngest, he was pretty much Terry’s right hand man, and the one who looked after everything at home. So like, not a lot of time to have a breakdown and shit when he was supposed to be figuring out how to not get caught during a drug run, and making sure the heating, water and lights stayed on, _and_ that none of his siblings died of starvation, while Terry was gone for months either because he was incarcerated or just felt like not being at home. Oh, and also making sure they stayed out of the system and weren’t sent to a group home, during those Terry Being Absent periods, _also_ wasn’t conducive to dealing with his emotions.

Plus, the simplest of all reasons: Milkovich men were not pussies who had pathetic things like _emotions._

Even after what happened with Svetlana, there were still _people_ around, and the only person he might’ve felt comfortable enough to share his emotions with, was gone. So he’d held himself together—with the help of booze and drugs and shooting shit—in the months before Ian had come back into his life. And after Ian had come back… well. There was just _so much_ going on that even if he’d desperately felt like it, Mickey couldn’t taken the time for himself to just _breathe_ a little.

But now? Now, there’s no Terry (and thank fuck for that), his siblings are more or less scattered to the winds, there’s no Svetlana or Yevgeny, there’s no Ian. There’s no one to take care of, to look after, to put up a façade in front of, or to stay strong for.

There’s just Mickey Milkovich and his gay-ass feelings.

—

He gets up from the sofa and, out of curiosity (or boredom), looks at his phone. He tells himself it’s to check the time, and ignores the voice in his head saying _yeah, sure._ There are no new messages and calls. He lets himself feel the sadness and disappointment that surface upon seeing that no one has contacted him, even though he’s basically gone underground.

Because there’s literally nothing else to do, Mickey puts on his jacket and grabs his phone and keys and heads to the door. He opens it. And.

And.

If he didn’t think he was pathetic _before_ , he definitely thinks so _now._

His heart actually fucking starts _racing,_ in fucking _fear,_ as soon as he lifts his foot to go out.

Mickey Milkovich, badass Southside thug—who came out in front of his abusive, violent homophobic father _and_ said-homophobic-father’s friends, in a bar in his more-or-less homophobic neighbourhood—is actually fucking _scared_ of going out.

Mickey looks down at his half-raised foot.

Then he looks at the world outside. Feels his heart race, _again._

Then he looks at his hand on the doorknob.

Then he looks at the door.

He purses his lips.

He scowls.

Mickey says, “Fuck you, Ian Gallagher.”

And then promptly shuts the door, turns around, takes off his jacket and throws it on the sofa, makes his way to his bedroom and plants himself face down on his bed.

He has a fleeting thought about how, if nothing else, at least the break-up with Ian has made him sympathise with Batty Sheila a little.

Mickey Milkovich, badass Southside thug, doesn’t leave his bed for a few hours after that.

—

It’s dark when Mickey finally comes out of his bedroom. He scowls at the front door, goes to the kitchen, and makes himself some mac-and-cheese. With his bottle of beer and food, he enters the living room and scowls, again, at his discarded jacket. After placing the things in his hands on the coffee table, he takes his jacket and throws it on a chair far enough away that he won’t have to see it all the fucking time.

Then he turns on the tv, and gets comfortable on the sofa with his dinner.

After dinner, and washing the dishes, Mickey decides to spend the rest of the night watching whatever movies come on the tv.

Later, he goes to sleep, and that’s that.

Another day done.

—

The next day, after breakfast and a shower, Mickey experimentally moves towards the front door but then his brain goes: _nuh-uh. nope. not yet, bro. sorry._ So, Mickey makes a detour and somehow ends up in Mandy’s room.

He really hates his brain. Like, _really_ hates it.

Mickey, for some unknown reason, (he’s _really_ getting tired of this not-knowing-why-but-still-doing-it-bullshit) closes the door behind him when he enters the room. He was here just two or three days ago, to clean, but then he’d been too preoccupied and hadn’t really thought much of anything. He hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was in his baby sister’s room: his baby sister who he was the closest to of all of his siblings, the sister who was as close to their mom as he was, the sister who brought Ian Gallagher into his life, the sister who’d gently told him _it’s manic depression, Mick_ and then had helped him look after Ian after his first depressive episode, the sister who he’d tried to keep away from her abusive boyfriend but to no avail, the sister he doesn’t know the whereabouts of now, the sister who left.

 _Here we go again_ , Mickey thinks as the tears start to fall from his eyes again.

—

So. Apparently, he misses Mandy. It only took about a half hour of crying on her bed for Mickey to come to that conclusion.

After that, he just sits there, and looks around.

Leaning back against the headboard, he imagines Mandy in this room, just being. He imagines Ian and Mandy locked up in this room—for hours—talking, laughing about something or the other, being the stupid kids that they were, back then, when their lives hadn’t taken the extra shitty turns that they did. The image brings a fond smile to Mickey’s face, but also makes him sad.

He misses them both, so much. He wants them to be happy again. He hopes Mandy is, wherever she is. He hopes Ian is too, someday.

Mickey hopes, a little, that he gets to be a part of that happiness, too. Eventually.

He looks around the room again, and finds a stray book on Mandy’s dresser. He frowns and gets up to check it. _The Wuthering Heights_ , it says. Probably some book she must’ve been assigned at school, and didn’t feel like taking with her when leaving with her domestic abuser of a boyfriend.

Mickey stays in the room a little longer.

Inhales. Exhales. Then leaves.

He still has the book with him.

—

He _could_ just play a video game if he’s so bored, he argues with himself. Or, more specifically, he argues with the part of his brain that apparently wants to read that fucking book he found in Mandy’s room.

It’s one thing to cry like a little bitch all day, everyday, or to drink water instead of beer, or to not be able to leave the house because he’s scared, or to fucking enjoy a stupid superhero movie.

It’s a whole other thing to read an old as fuck novel left by his sister in her room.

What’s _happening_ to him, for fuck’s sake?

Nothing, he decides. Nothing’s happening to him. He’s going to sit on the sofa and watch shitty tv, or play a video game, or do something on his phone. Nothing’s happening to him because he’s _not_ reading a classic novel. Nope.

When he sits on the sofa, he notices that the book is right next to him. As if he’d carried it all the way here. _Pfft, as if._ Mickey Milkovich does not carry books around with him, much less _read_ them.

He’s not _that_ gay.

For a moment it feels like the entire house snorts and says _yeah, sure_.

He groans loudly, throws his head back and says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Mickey picks up Wuthering Heights and starts reading.

—

He eats yesterday’s leftover mac and cheese for dinner, while reading his book. When he’s washing his dishes, he thinks about the book. After, when he’s in bed, drinking a beer, he’s still fucking reading the book.

He falls asleep with the book on the pillow next to him.

Before he does, he thinks about Ian in that spot. He feels like crying. He misses Ian, misses him like a fucking limb. He doesn’t have a lot of metaphors, he can’t draw a lot of comparisons to explain how much he misses Ian. All Mickey Milkovich, badass Southside thug, knows is that he misses Ian Gallagher so much, it feels like he’s being consumed by it. Like the feeling of missing Ian is the only thing in his body. No blood, no organs, no cells, no _anything_. All he’s filled by is the need to be close to Ian Gallagher. All he feels inside him is the knowledge that he _misses_ Ian.

He feels like crying. But he doesn’t.

He just sleeps and dreams of the book he read.

—

The next morning, he feels ready.

He just _knows_ that today is the day. So, he takes a shower and wears semi-clean clothes. After his breakfast, he doesn’t think, he just moves towards his discarded jacket, (he has a thought of buying a new one, as soon as possible) picks up his phone, the keys of the house from the coffee table, and his wallet.

Then, he goes to the front door, opens it, steps out. He climbs down the steps and, before he knows it, he’s on his sidewalk and looking up at his house.

Approximately after a week of the love of his life dumping him, Mickey Milkovich—badass Southside thug—leaves his house and makes his way down the street and just walks.

And walks and walks.

—

Surprisingly, Mickey doesn’t somehow, accidentally, end up at South Wallace. He’s pretty proud of himself for that. He doesn’t know how long this strength required to stay away will last, but he’s going to be treasure it while he still has it.

He has a fleeting thought of going to the Alibi, but yeah. No. Not happening.

Mickey just walks and the weather is not exactly _nice_ by any standards, and he still feels terrible, but. But it also still feels kinda good. He’s glad he’s out. Even if he’s in the shitty Southside of Chicago, it’s good.

He ends up at a small store where he, without making any conscious decision to do so, buys himself some earphones. He remembers his old ones broke a while ago and he never felt the need to replace them, but he buys them now. Again, _for some reason._

He then boards the L (after jumping over the turnstile like a motherfucking _pro)_ without any clear destination in mind, and looks out the window.

At some point, he decides to get out and quickly does so before the doors close. He exits the station and finds himself in a neighbourhood that’s like some mid-point of the Northside and the Southside of Chicago.

He’d woken up later than usual (fuck that book, honestly) and, so, by the time he decides to head into a decent-looking bar—not that he actually cares about _decent_ —it’s late in the afternoon. If Mickey gave a fuck about… literally _anything_ , he’d think that heading into a bar in the middle of the day may seem pretty problematic. But he doesn’t care, and he sure as fuck isn’t going to a _café,_ thank you very much.

There aren’t a lot of people in the place, obviously, and he sits on a stool at the bar. He orders himself some water first. (Because all that walking around is tiring and dehydrating, fuck you.) Then he gets himself a beer in celebration of being able to _finally_ leave his fucking house.

He just sits there, slowly sipping his beer, looking around at the (few) people there, listening to the soft music. He sees a napkin lying next to his elbow on the counter, and after searching for a bit, asks the bartender for a pen, or something. The bartender—Alex, her name tag reads—smiles at Mickey when she gives it to him and he gives an almost non-existent one back, and takes the pen.

So, Mickey sits at a bar in the late afternoon, a week after being broken up with, in a neighbourhood he’s never been in before, and fucking _doodles on a napkin._

—

Sometime later, Mickey feels eyes on him and looks up to see that a dark-haired girl, sitting one seat away from him—probably in her mid-twenties, if he had to guess—is looking at him. Or his napkin. He isn’t sure. When she sees that Mickey has caught her, she gives him a smile, which Mickey is too confused to return.

“Those are pretty good,” the girl says to him. She sounds like she’s from Chicago, so there’s that.

“What?” Mickey asks, confused. Because, _what?_

“Your… doodles. Whatever you’re drawing on that napkin. They’re good,” the girl says. She looks amused, now.

Mickey looks down at the _whatever_ he’s drawn on his napkin, and sees he kind of went overboard and drew _a lot_ of stuff on that napkin without even really thinking about it. He doesn’t think they’re worthy of being complimented, though.

“Sure, whatever,” he says, shrugging her compliment off. He can’t be sure if she’s hitting on him. He doesn’t want to assume, or anything, but it is a possibility.

The girl frowns at him and then moves over to sit in the seat directly next to him. She pulls the napkin towards herself, and looks it over for a moment. She then nods resolutely, and looks up at him. Mickey sees that her eyes are a dark brown.

“Yep. I’m sure. They’re very good. You should take my compliment. I know what I’m talking about,” the girl says to him. Mickey really needs to ask her her name because referring to her as _the girl_ in his head is annoying him.

“Oh, yeah? How do you know what you’re talking about?” Mickey asks.

“Uh, I’m pretty great at drawing shit, for one. Also, I run a tattoo parlour and this is kind of my… forte, or whatever, I guess. So, yeah, I know what I’m talking about,” she tells him. Mickey doesn’t know her, and is kind of scared of the thought that she could possibly be hitting on him, but he likes her. Or at least, he likes the way that she looks so determined. Determined to make sure that a stranger knows that their doodles are nice.

“Sure. Okay, fine. They’re great, I believe you,” Mickey relents, and hopes she’ll go away.

“Now, I didn’t say anything about them being _great_ or anything,” She raises her eyebrows at him and grins cheekily.

Mickey snorts, and flips her off. She laughs.

“I’m Ava. You?” she says, extending her hand for Mickey to shake.

“Mickey,” he replies, looking at the hand dubiously for a moment, and then shaking it.

Her grip is strong and firm. Mickey appreciates it.

“I’m gay,” Mickey adds a second later, for literally no reason at all. He wants to kick himself. What the fuck? Literally, _who_ asked?

Ava snorts, looking amused, and then says, “Okay, Mickey. Good to know. Thank you for telling me.”

She looks amused, but she also looks like she’s serious. That she’s actually glad that Mickey told her and she’s fine with it. Which she probably is.

“I just—I mean—“ Mickey sputters and wants to go to a doctor _right the fuck now_ , because Mickey Milkovich does not _stutter_.

“You thought I was hitting on you, because I complimented you. While we’re in a bar. Understandable. But, I’m not into cock. Like, _at all._ So. Don’t worry about that,” Ava says and grins again.

Mickey likes her more.

“Ah. Fuck. Right. Okay,” is Mickey’s eloquent reply because he’s an idiot, apparently.

Ava smiles, _again,_ and then looks at the time on the clock above the bar. She gets up and, seemingly deciding last minute, flips Mickey’s napkin and writes a number on it.

“So. It was nice meeting you, Mickey. I wish I could stay for longer, but there’s like, _a lot_ of shit I’ve got to do. Anyway, now that you know that your virtue will be safe around me, give me a call if you ever want to earn money for drawing what you just drew. But on someone’s body,” she grins at him one last time and is out before Mickey can even process what the fuck just happened to him.

 _Okay,_ Mickey thinks.

And then he pockets the napkin.

—

Mickey arrives home just when it’s getting properly dark, with the burger that he got from some hole in the wall place near the bar.

He grabs himself a beer, turns on the tv, and eats his burger, decompressing after the day he’s had.

He’s tired, but it feels good. For the first time in so long, he doesn’t feel completely like shit.

—

Much later, he’s laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. The silence of the house is getting to him a little. It’s not unbearable, or anything. For now, at least. And, Mickey thinks, for someone who has spent his life constantly surrounded by people and their noise, from cousins and brothers to Russian hookers, he’s handling the whole silence thing pretty well.

He doesn’t know if he’ll call that Ava chick from the bar. He’s still saved her number though.

Mickey stares at the ceiling. Lets himself feel the familiar feeling of missing Ian.

Then he falls asleep.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	5. i don't know anything but i know that i miss you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which mickey doesn't know things, but it's okay.

A few days before the Porno Thing happened, Mickey created one of his most favourite memories with Ian.

And yeah, for Mickey, every single second he spent with Ian was special, and beautiful, and important. But, there are these moments that particularly stand out, and that day is one of them.

Maybe not the entire day, but just the morning.

Somehow, miraculously, Mickey had woken up before Ian. That wasn’t the sort of thing that happened often after Ian had come back: in fact, Mickey could count on one hand the amount of times that it had happened in all those months. So, he’d woken up before Ian but just stayed in his position because he’d be damned if he woke Ian up, too. The guy barely slept and, as much as Mickey avoided the fact, it worried him. He _knew_ why Ian wasn’t sleeping, and he knew sooner or later something had to give, but for now Mickey just wanted to stay in this bubble with him.

Mickey had, then, stayed in bed, with a soundly sleeping Ian firmly attached to his back. It was good. It was more than good. He would never be able to describe how _perfect_ it felt to be in Ian’s arms like this, to have Ian so close to him and just _be._ If it was possible, Mickey would gladly stay in this exact position, forever.

So yeah, he hadn’t moved because he didn’t want Ian to wake up, but also because of his own selfish reasons. Sue him.

He’d lain there, drifting in and out of sleep, for an indeterminate amount of time, until Ian had started shifting behind him. Then, there was a nose pressing softly into Mickey’s nape, an arm tightening around his waist, a soft kiss being laid in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and Ian had asked,

“How long have you been up?”

Mickey had smiled and shrugged because he honestly didn’t know _and_ didn’t care, either. Like, even a little bit. Time could go fuck itself while he was in Ian Gallagher’s arms.

He’d then turned around to face Ian. And then just looked at him.

Looked at his red hair glowing in the morning sunlight coming from the window, at the half-lidded green eyes looking back at him, at the dusting of freckles on every visible part of his body, at his soft pink lips that were smiling softly at Mickey, and had felt his own heart completely _fill_ with all the love that he had for this boy.

Then Mickey had raised his hand to Ian’s face and brushed his fingers softly against one of his cheekbones, softly moved them across his sharp jawline, touched his lips, his nose, his eyelids, and then brought that hand down down down, to rest on his chest. Mickey had felt utterly _consumed_ by how much he felt for Ian that morning, how much he just wanted to keep touching him and looking at him and keep getting closer and closer to him until there was nothing left to separate them at all.

“What’s gotten into you this morning, huh?” Ian had asked, amused, in his I-just-woke-up voice and Mickey’s heart had stuttered because he _loved him so much._

_I just love you so much, I don’t know what to do with myself._

“I’m hoping _you_ will, at some point,” Mickey had replied, smirking at Ian, while caressing his chest.

“Oh, yeah?” Ian had asked, smiling, “Let’s make that happen then. Wouldn’t want to keep Mickey Milkovich waiting.”

“Damn straight,” Mickey had said, grinning.

Then, Ian had leaned in and kissed him.

And, maybe it was because he’d seen something in Mickey’s eyes or not, but Ian had kissed him slowly that day. Maybe he’d felt, too, like this morning was different than their usual ones, that it was the kind of morning where they should take it slow.

For a good long while, they’d lain on their sides and kissed each other, gently but firmly. They hadn’t even used tongue for a significant portion of their making out, but even when they had, it was still at that same slow pace. Ian had held Mickey’s jaw in his hand while kissing him, and Mickey had felt like every single touch of Ian on his body was setting him on fire.

Then, Ian had slowly rolled them over until Mickey was on his back and Ian was on top, comfortably settled between Mickey’s legs. Just the way Mickey liked it. _Loved_ it. Mickey had pushed his hands into Ian’s hair and distantly noted how long they were, and how much he loved them, too. Ian had groaned when he’d scraped his nails along his scalp, and Mickey had felt that groan reverberate through him because of how closely Ian was pressed to him.

Ian had then softly pressed kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Down down down he’d gone —kissing, licking and nipping at all that expanse of skin—until he was hovering above the waistband of Mickey’s boxers, ready to take him into his mouth. But Mickey didn’t want that, then. He’d slipped his hands into Ian’s hair to get his attention, and when Ian had looked up, Mickey had shook his own head and directed his attention to the lube sitting on the dresser, biting his lip. Ian had held his gaze for a moment, searching for something perhaps, until he’d found it and then nodded his head minutely and moved up up up until he was again softly cradling Mickey’s face and kissing him.

Ian had then gotten the lube and, after kissing Mickey for a while longer and taking off both their boxers, had sat back on his knees to finger Mickey open.

Every single touch by Ian that day had overwhelmed Mickey to the point that, by the time Ian had barely added in a third finger, Mickey was a writhing, incoherent, sweaty mess, _begging_ Ian for _more more more._

“Jesus. Fuck. Ian. _Please._ Get in me. Now. _Ian_ ,” Mickey had babbled.

Ian had, rightfully, been a tiny bit taken aback by Mickey’s urgency (and overall behaviour. Because, honestly? Even that overwhelmed, Mickey had had a distant thought that he was acting like a bitch in heat. But he literally could not give less of a fuck then. He just absolutely _needed_ Ian) but he’d also looked affected, clearly very turned on by the proceedings.

“Shit. Yeah, okay. Okay, Mick,” Ian had said and then had promptly rolled on a condom and before Mickey knew it, Ian was balls-deep in him and Mickey, despite his panting, had felt like he could finally fucking _breathe_.

“Shit,” Ian had said, clearly also overwhelmed and resisting the urge to move. He’d stayed in that position long enough for Mickey to adjust (not very long at all, really) and to order (or beg) Ian to _move, fuck, dammit Ian,_ move.

And so, Ian had moved. Moved _perfectly_. Moved like his body was meant to be doing just that: moving inside Mickey and wringing pleasure from every single motherfucking _pore_ of his body. With every snap of Ian’s hips, with every thrust, Mickey had fallen over and over and _over_ in love with Ian. He’d felt breathless both from the fucking, and the uncontrollable swirl of emotions taking over him.

Mickey had pulled Ian down by the back of his neck and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until it wasn’t physically possible for them anymore. Right then, he’d _hated_ the fact that his body needed to breathe. He hated the very concept of a thing that was stopping him from being connected to Ian in another way.

When they’d stopped kissing, Mickey had still kept Ian close to his body by burying his fingers into his fiery hair and tucked his head to rest in the crook of his neck and shoulder. In that position, he’d felt every single of Ian’s wet, gasping breaths, and Mickey had _loved_ it. Had _loved_ it when Ian had started planting sloppy kisses there as he continued to thrust into him. Mickey had closed his eyes, then, and just _felt._

Felt Ian’s soft soft hair between his fingers; felt his mouth press kisses against the sensitive skin of his neck, shoulder, and collarbones, felt the way Ian’s breath ghosted across Mickey’s skin whenever he whispered _fuck_ or _shit_ or _so good Mickey so fucking good so tight;_ felt the way their bodies were attached together, the way they moved together; felt the way Ian was buried so deep inside him it was like they were one; felt how utterly _in love_ he was in that moment, like he’d fucking _die right now because this was so good so fucking good it couldn’t possibly be real._

Mickey hadn’t even cared, that morning, about coming, about there being an end to all this. He’d felt like this moment was infinite: like he’d forever be lying on this bed in the light of the morning sun, with Ian all around him, moving his body again and again and again into Mickey’s. He’d have died right then and there and his only regret would’ve been that he couldn’t live in that moment for a minute longer.

That morning, Mickey had felt like he was bursting at the seams with how much love he had for Ian. Like if he didn’t get it out, didn’t say those three words, his body would just stop working because he was fucking _overwhelmed_ and saying _i love you Ian i love you i love you i love you_ till he couldn’t anymore felt like the only way he’d be able to survive.

Mickey had gasped and said, “Ian, Ian, _Ian_ ,” not having the first fucking _clue_ what he was trying to achieve chanting Ian’s name like that. He didn’t know if he wanted something, he didn’t know if he was getting Ian’s attention by saying it, he didn’t know if he wanted him to stop, he didn’t know if he wanted him to somehow move in even _deeper_ , he didn’t know if he wanted to tell him _i love you,_ he didn’t know if he was begging Ian for some unidentifiable unknown thing, he didn’t know if he was just saying it because he didn’t know what else to fucking _do_ and Ian’s name was the only thing that made sense and would come out of his mouth coherently. He didn’t know. Mickey didn’t know anything that morning.

All he’d known was that he somehow wanted to fuse himself to the boy above him, to somehow crawl into his skin and bury deep deep deep until there was absolutely no chance at all of them ever being separated. Because if they were, if they were ever separated, Mickey would _die._ In that moment, he didn’t even need air or water or food, he just needed _Ian_ to be able to live, to be able to exist.

It was a survival thing, really.

Being with Ian felt like something that would kill him. Being _without_ Ian felt like something that would kill him. Mickey was losing his mind and _he loved it._ He loved every single insane second of anything as long as Ian Gallagher had something to do with it.

 _Shh Shh Shh_ Ian had said to him when he’d raised his head after Mickey kept chanting his name. He’d placed a kiss to the corner of Mickey’s mouth and then said,

“I’ve got you, Mick. I’ve got you, baby. I’m here. Always. always,” like it was nothing at all and he hadn’t even had the chance to touch Mickey’s cock before Mickey had drawn in one huge breath and come.

Fireworks, explosions, bright white light, soul fucking ascending to heaven. Ever damn cliché had come true that morning for Mickey as he’d come. Distantly, Mickey had thought that that one word was too small to describe what he’d just felt. He felt like he wasn’t even _here_. He didn’t even know what here _was._

Mickey hadn’t even noticed Ian finishing, grabbing a wet washcloth from… somewhere, and coming back to clean him up. He hadn’t even completely come back down until Ian was once again fitted snugly against his side and tapping a rhythm on Mickey’s chest.

“So, I’m guessing that was good, then?” That smug fucking bastard had asked, smirking at Mickey. Somehow smirking _fondly_ at Mickey.

And Mickey had loved him then so much it _hurt._

Mickey had grinned widely despite himself (or _because_ of himself because he was Mickey Milkovich and Mickey Milkovich loved Ian Gallagher so much it took his breath away) and flipped Ian off.

They only had enough time to share one sweet kiss, before Svetlana had come banging on their door shouting that _they could play with each other’s dicks later_ and needed to come out so that they could do… _something_ that Mickey didn’t exactly hear, for her. 

Then they’d exchanged similar _what can you do_ looks and gotten out of bed, smiling at each other.

And that was that.

—

Mickey wonders, now, if things would’ve been different if he’d told Ian that morning that he loved him. If he’d let Ian know how consumed he was by the love he had for him, would he still have ended up dumped on the Gallagher front porch? Because he’d said it twice by then, and it didn’t matter one bit. So, was him saying _i love you_ meaningless because he was too late? Or was it just meaningless, period?

He wonders if Ian would’ve said it back. He wonders if it’d have even meant anything—if later, Mickey would have even believed it—if he knew that Ian had said it while he was manic. If it would’ve hurt more to be broken up with, after he’d heard Ian say those three words. If it would’ve been the same because he knew, in his bones, how Ian had felt about him once, before an official bipolar diagnosis?

The number of _ifs_ in his life exhaust him. He doesn’t want to think about them. It’s like the moment he starts down the path of asking himself any questions related to Ian, all his energy is automatically and instantly drained from him.

Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s part of the whole _letting myself heal_ bullshit that he’s trying out now. But, all Mickey has decided to think about—if he absolutely _has_ to think about it—are the cold hard facts: Mickey loves Ian. Mickey knows that Ian _had_ loved him once, even if it was fleeting, even if it wasn’t real, he _had. How long_ and _When did he stop?_ are questions that Mickey doesn’t have the answers to, and he won’t even bother looking for them. Ian Gallagher had once loved Mickey Milkovich, that’s all he knows for a fact. (Some dark, ugly corner of his brain whispers to him that that’s already more than Mickey ever deserved) Ian had cheated on him. Ian had run away from him twice. Ian had come back and then, Ian had broken up with him.

Those are all the things that he _knows._ Those are all the things that he has to live with without adding all the motherfucking questions into it, too.

—

Two days after Mickey makes an idiot of himself in front of Ava, he calls her and, somehow, he agrees to visit her parlour the next day. _For a job._ Mickey Milkovich is planning on working in a tattoo parlour.

Literally, every single day, _something_ happens that makes him want to contact the fucking government for some kind of examination that would tell him if aliens had abducted his body, without him knowing about it.

He has been out of it enough for it to be a possibility. He _really_ wouldn’t be surprised if he found out that a cockroach had somehow hijacked his brain and was running the operations.

—

In the two days leading to that, Mickey finishes his book and he has to sit on his bed and stare at nothing for a good long while digesting the fact that _he just finished a book. A classic novel. Mickey Milkovich just finished reading a classic novel and he’s_ sad _that it’s finished._

Iggy also comes to visit, then, and they don’t do much of anything in particular despite shooting the shit and literally _shooting shit_ in a video game. They order burgers, smoke some weed, and Iggy tells Mickey about his girlfriend. Mickey tells him that he’d offer advice about some argument they had, but, first of all, women are _really_ not his specialty, and, secondly, right now he’s the literal _worst_ person to ask about how a relationship works.

Iggy stays for a night and after, apparently, making up with his girlfriend on the phone, he leaves. But before leaving, he looks Mickey in the eye, and very seriously (‘seriously’ for perpetually stoned Iggy) tells him,

“Looks like you’re getting your shit together, Mick. Proud of ya. Knew you could do it.”

Iggy ruffles his hair before leaving and Mickey’s honestly too stunned from his comment to do anything about it.

He also walks a lot during those two days.

—

On the first day, he goes out and immediately gets a new phone (but not immediately enough that he doesn’t write down the numbers for all the Gallaghers, Mandy, or any other important ones. Even if he does remember several of the ones saved on his phone by heart. _Just in case._ (He doesn’t write down the contact details of _one_ particular person because to imply that he _doesn’t_ have it memorised is, frankly, offensive. Fuck you very much.)) because this one makes him want to hurl it towards a wall, every time he sets his eyes upon it.

The one he gets is not a completely new one, because even if he _does_ have some dough right now (Iggy sold some useless things for him that he found around the house during his cleaning spree. He’s pretty sure Iggy gave him more money than could’ve been earned by selling all that shit, but he’s going to keep mum about it, and be touched by the gesture.), he simply refuses to waste that kind of money. However, thinking _what the hell_ , he _does_ get a good data plan. Mickey knows that these are relatively normal things for people to do but… he doesn’t think he falls in that category, so.

Then he makes his way to a coffee shop because he has a sudden craving for some chocolate cookies. Instead of immediately leaving after getting his food, Mickey sits in that hippy _cafe_ and uses the free wi-fi connection to install any and all apps he finds interesting on the app store, while eating his cookies. He installs some games, because _why the fuck not?_ And then some social media apps that he’s never used and probably never will, either. Seeing some dating apps gives him pause, but he quickly moves on to another page. Then he remembers the earphones he bought the other day, and gets spotify and youtube music too.

Despite everything, Mickey thinks, _maybe_ this whole _letting yourself heal_ thing isn’t that bad, after all.

—

On the second day, Mickey grabs his earphones before leaving the house, and uses his trial version of spotify (he is _not_ paying for shit he might not even like) to listen to random playlists on the app. ( _A lot_ of the songs suck. Some are cool, though, so he stops to like them before continuing to walk)

As he walks, he has a thought about how much hatred he’d felt for his jacket when he couldn’t leave the house and, also about how he was wearing it _that day_. And so, Mickey decides to do something about it soon.

His aimless roaming around somehow leads him to the high school he barely ever went to, or liked. He figures it’s hard to like a place where every single person acts like they already know you, your potential, and how you’re going to end up—without ever giving you a single fucking chance to actually prove yourself—because they know your surname and, apparently, consider it enough to pass all that judgement. Even the teachers. _Especially_ the teachers. So, if Mickey had never wanted to be a part of place like that, can anyone really blame him?

And if they can, fuck them.

Mickey stands outside the building, and looks at it for a moment.

He has a thought, says _huh_ internally.

And then he leaves. After liking another song.

—

The thing is. The damned, horrible, awful, beautiful, amazing thing is: Mickey sees him.

Mickey sees him and he loves it and he hates it and he _loves it._

On that second day, he somehow ends up near _Patsy’s Pies_ and his heart stutters in his chest upon recognising the area. He didn’t end up at the baseball field, he didn’t end up at the abandoned buildings, he didn’t end up at South Wallace, he didn’t end up at the Kash and Grab. He ended up _here_.

Mickey doesn’t know if he should be mad at himself for doing so well but then doing _this_ , or if he should just forgive himself for this one small huge horrible incredible mistake.

He’s a little ways down the sidewalk from the front of the diner and he thinks that he’ll probably go inside and risk it. _Hope for it._ And who the fuck even knows what _it_ is? Does he want to see Ian? Does he not want to see Ian? Does he want Ian to see _him?_ Does he not want Ian to do that? Does he want to go up to Ian and kiss him, or does he want to throw every single curse he can think of at Ian? What does he want his lips to do? What does he want his feet to do? What does he want his entire body to do? He doesn’t know.

With Ian, he’s never known anything. All he’s known is that he _loves him loves him loves him_.

So Mickey just waits for a moment on the sidewalk and breathes. _Tries_ to breathe.

And then.

He sees a flash of red hair near the diner’s entrance, above all the heads of the people moving in between them and Mickey…

Mickey just _knows_ its him. _Knows_ that those red hair are his. _Were_ his. _Will always be his no matter what happens._

He didn’t know what he was going to do. So he isn’t really surprised or disappointed or relieved when just that flash of hair has Mickey turning around and walking in the opposite direction, as fast as he can without actually breaking into a run.

He doesn’t put it past himself to actually run.

He makes his way home, and doesn’t even have the will to get himself a beer before he’s making his way to the bedroom.

—

He just lies there and lets himself _breathe_ for a while.

He feels like he hasn’t drawn in a breath since his eyes caught that one particular flash of _red orange red orange_.

_Firecrotch. Red. Orange Boy._

Mickey loves him so much he wants to die.

Mickey loves him so much he wants to live and live and live until that idiot comes to his senses and comes back to Mickey.

His love for Ian Gallagher makes Mickey Milkovich want to cry and so he does.

—

Mickey cries and thinks about that one morning before everything had went so spectacularly to shit. Thinks about that one morning when he’d almost told the boy above him around him inside him next to him _i love you so much i don’t know what to do with myself, Ian._

_I don’t know what to do with myself, Ian. Tell me what the fuck to do._

Mickey feels like he’ll spend his entire life crying for one Ian Clayton Gallagher.

The part that makes him smile and laugh to himself, and then cry harder is this: he wouldn’t even fucking _mind_ doing that.

—

Mickey feels a little worse for wear the day he’s supposed to meet Ava, but it’s not really bad. Or maybe it is, and he’s just spent so much time feeling shitty that he can’t tell the difference.

Either way, Mickey soldiers though it. Just like Mickey Milkovich does everything else in his life.

Except for maybe when he’s confronted with the possibility of seeing certain gingers. In that case, _soldiering through it_ can go fuck itself.

After a half-hour train ride, Mickey reaches Ava’s tattoo parlour and it’s in that moment, before entering, that he wonders just what the _fuck_ he’s doing here.

Mickey thinks about turning around and leaving and blocking Ava’s number and pretending she never existed. But.

But Mickey thinks about how it’s _just Mickey Milkovich now_ and how his _doodles are good_ and how there’s nothing in his life that’s stopping him from going inside. There’s no one who’d pass judgement, let alone someone whose judgement he has to fear. Iggy is the only person that he has any contact with now (and for the foreseeable future) and all he’ll probably say, if he finds out,is _Sweet, bro. Good for you._ The thought of his brother makes Mickey smile. He really does love his idiot of a brother, even if he’ll probably never tell him that. Or maybe this post-being-dumped Mickey _will_ say what he feels, eventually. Who even knows anymore?

So yeah: literally nothing is stopping Mickey from going in and doing something, for once in his life, that he actually _likes_ , to earn money. Even if Mickey is horrible at it and Ava fires him in a day, no one will know. No one will care. _It doesn’t matter._ So, why shouldn’t he?

Mickey nods resolutely to himself, squares his shoulders and enters the parlour.

Ava looks up from the counter, and smiles at him.

“So, Mickey-Mick, you want a job?”

And, horrible nickname aside, that’s that.

—

While Ava showed him around, Mickey noticed things.

Like how he’d missed the electric blue highlights in Ava’s hair that day at the bar, and how she has small tattoos littered all over the skin visible to him. (A butterfly here, a small heart there, some quote on her collarbone, some symbol on a finger and so on)

He also noticed how much Ava teased him, as if she’d known him all her life and not just for a few days. (“So, like, I’ll try to keep my hands to myself. But I’d strongly suggest _not_ wearing any kind of revealing clothing because there’s only so far my self-control can go, y’know?”)

He noticed how much he liked her, and how open he was to her suggestion of giving Mickey more tattoos, because, her _attraction_ to him aside, Mickey’s skin is the kind that _would be amazing to draw tattoos on._ Despite internally agreeing, he’d flipped her off and she’d laughed at him.

He’d noticed how, after seeing the walls covered in different kinds of artwork, his fingers had twitched like he wanted to create something too.

He’d noticed how _good_ the idea of working here felt.

Mickey noticed how he kinda, maybe, felt _happy_ after so long.

—

Ava told him that he could start coming in tomorrow so he could see how they (Ava and the two other people who worked there) did everything at the parlour. For the first few days, they’d all supervise Mickey. (“Don’t make that face, Mouse, everyone’s gotta go through the dreaded _supervision_. Even the pretty ones,” she’d snickered at his deepened scowl. “Jokes aside, I can’t really let you essentially stab people with needles without being sure you can do it properly.” Mickey’d only raised an eyebrow at her and she’d said, “Even _if_ you look like the kinda guy who probably has enough experience to do just that, in his sleep.” And then quickly moved onto the next topic.)

Until Mickey could officially start tattooing people, Ava’d told him, he could draw designs that either the rest of them could draw on clients, or be used by him later. (“Designs meaning, _doodling and whatever_ , but more?” “Yep, exactly that, babe. See, you’re already getting it.”)

So, yeah. All technicalities aside, Mickey Milkovich was now working at a tattoo shop and. And it was good. Really good.

—

On his way back from Ava’s, Mickey spontaneously decides to stop at a small bookstore.

He returns home that night with some Radiohead song playing through his earphones, one of his hands laden with a 10-books-heavy bookstore bag, and the other holding Chinese takeout.

After dinner, he keeps the tv on as background noise while he browses through Amazon on his phone. He gets himself a new jacket, and orders himself a few cheap t-shirts and jeans too, along with a GED test preparation guide.

Because, well, why the fuck _not?_

_—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. first of all, i really wanted to give an exact location for the tattoo parlour but didn't because my dumbass does not live in Chicago, or the USA for that matter. and after some research, i pretty much gave up, for now. maybe i'll give an exact location later on. when *other* things happen. 👀
> 
> secondly, i don't know shit about how tattoo parlours work, so just. suspend your disbelief or whatever. please. actually, suspend your disbelief for a lot of the shit that has already happened, or might happen, in this story. all i care about is keeping mickey happy. lit rally do Not care At All about how the real world might work. 
> 
> thirdly, the title of the chapter comes from 'betty' by... yep. miss taylor swift. so if you want, you could listen to it. 
> 
> ALSO, mickey totally bought the picture of dorian gray too. he didn't really know about it before, or oscar wilde for that matter, but he definitely loves it. i'll probably mention it later on. 
> 
> and maybe, MAYBEEE, we meet ian in the next chapter. M A Y B E. (i want him here too, but i just want to let these little babies work on themselves for a while before they can get together. 🥺) 
> 
> so yeah. that's all. :)


	6. beers, candies and broken hearts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which months go by and shit happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of correctional rape, abuse, and homophobic slurs.

There are moments, when he’s lying in bed at night, about to fall asleep, staring at the ceiling. Or when he’s preparing for his GED, realising he finds the math section _easy_. Or when he’s finally giving his first ever tattoo to someone, when Mickey finds himself asking _what the fuck am I doing?_ and _who the fuck am I kidding?_ over and over.

It’s hard, is the thing.

It’s hard realising that _fucked for life_ Southside thug Mickey Milkovich, spawn of Terry Milkovich, is _here_. Here, lying in his bed, with fucking _novels_ (fucking _plural_ ) on the nightstand next to him. Here, preparing to give his GED and coming to the realisation that he’s _good_ at this shit, finds it _easy._ Here, at his honest-to-God, _legal_ job which he actually _likes_ , instead of on a drug run.

That he’s here, doing all of that, and not lying on a bed with the wife he doesn’t want anything to do with next to him. That Terry Milkovich isn’t anywhere near him and can’t hurt him. At least, for a little while.

That he’s not pretending to be someone he’s not.

He’s actually _content_ with the way his life is right now.

He likes it.

He likes it even if his heart aches when he thinks about Ian.

And that’s another thing: Mickey misses Ian and loves him and wants to be with him. But there’s that feeling inside of him, that thought in his head, that keeps reminding him _it’ll be okay. It’ll work out. Just let it be._ He hears it in his Mom’s voice, and believes it, even if it may be stupid.

And it’s in those moments, that Mickey also wonders if he even deserves all this shit. He hears the voice of his father in his head, telling him that he’s a piece of shit. He’s a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to go for after-work beers with the people from the tattoo-shop. That he doesn’t deserve a friend like Ava, who calls them best friends, and gives him kisses on the cheek, and looks at him with so much love and fondness that Mickey doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hears his father telling him that he is a Southside piece of trash who shouldn’t be going on walks around the city, listening to shitty pop songs that he secretly likes.

He even hears his father’s voice telling him not to be a _fucking pussy_ when he’s humming songs to himself throughout the day.

It’s so fucking difficult to not let that awful voice take over everything in his head, to not throw away all his novels, because reading is for _fags._ It’s hard to not get up and leave whatever bar they’ve gone to for drinks, because since when does Mickey Milkovich fucking _socialise?_ It’s hard to wear good clothes he actually likes, because _he’s not a girl_ and only girls do that shit. Or fags.

It’s hard and Mickey wishes, so desperately, that he could get rid of all these thoughts. And if that isn’t possible, that he could lose the need he has for doing everything in his power to keep all the good things in his life that he’s found since Ian. Mickey wishes he could stop being happy to go to his job, that he could hate the time spent with his colleagues, and hate how Ava teases him. He wishes he could do all of that, and not want to fight back against his father’s voice.

But he wants to. He wants to fight and keep everything he likes in his life. In this new life that he’s managed to build, all on his own.

So, like always, Mickey Milkovich fights.

Like fuck is he going to let Terry or anyone else stop him from being happy and doing things he likes.

Mickey may be a soft motherfucker now, but he still knows how to use his brass knuckles. And he _will_ use them, and more, if someone tries to take away these things from him.

—

Soon after Mickey starts his job, Ava and him become close friends.

It’s surprising to him how comfortable he is with her, and has been since the very first time they met. It’s surprising how much she genuinely likes him and spending time with him, despite the fact that he hasn’t really done much of anything to warrant that kind of affection. But Mickey likes it, so he soaks it all up. Even if he’d die before admitting that to Ava.

She drags him for beers, or ice-cream or dinner or _anything_ , most days after work. Often, James, Nina and Dan—the three other people who work at the parlour—accompany them. They’ve all had very different lives than Mickey, obviously, but they’re good people. And, though it takes a while, Mickey gets over thinking about those differences and just enjoys their company.

It’s good. Mickey likes it, hanging out with them.

(He still needs to recharge his social battery and beg off going out some days. Mickey may be a new person now, but he hasn’t changed enough to be going out with people _every_ fucking day.)

He also somehow ends up in the habit of going to Ava’s apartment several times a week. They don’t do much of anything, really. They play video games (Mickey was glad to find she liked them too. Wasn’t so glad when she beat him at Halo. Whatever. Mickey’s sure she cheated, despite what Ava may say about his skills), watch movies, eat junk food ( _a lot_ of candies are also consumed what with both their sweet teeth), and talk, too.

Sometimes, they don’t talk. Sometimes, Mickey settles back on one end of the couch, with Ava on the other, her feet in Mickey’s lap. Mickey reads a book while Ava fucks around on her phone or watches a movie. At some point, Ava plays a song she wants Mickey to hear, or Mickey reads aloud a part of a book he likes. Whatever the case, they listen to each other.

Sometimes, they don’t do anything. Just lay back on the couch on opposite ends, or on Ava’s bed, and listen to the songs playing on Ava’s bluetooth speakers.

(While playing video games, Ava reminds Mickey of Mandy. Or when they banter relentlessly, just for the fuck of it, Mickey thinks of his little sister. He loves Mandy, so much, but they weren’t ever able to have something this carefree and comfortable, like what he has with Ava. Maybe it was because of them being siblings, siblings who grew up in the Milkovich House of Horrors, or maybe something else. But still. But still, what Mickey and Mandy had was beautiful in all its imperfection. They loved each other, despite their strange ways of showing it.

Mickey misses her, in those moments with Ava, and sometimes when he’s alone too. Mickey thinks he finally _properly_ understands what Ian and Mandy had with each other. It used to make him jealous then, the easy way they existed together. (Mickey doesn’t know who this jealousy was towards) But, Mickey thinks he gets it now that he has it. Now, it hurts him that Ian and Mandy drifted apart, because of all the shit life threw at them.

Mickey misses them both. A lot. He misses them being together, annoying the fuck out of Mickey.)

It’s good, so so very good, what he has with Ava. Mickey has never really had a relationship like it before.

Mickey loves it.

—

There’s this one day, during Mickey’s second month at the parlour, when Ava doesn’t show up.

It would be unremarkable, except for the fact that Ava _always_ lets him know when she’s taking an off day, which is a rare occurrence to begin with.

Mickey texts her, and when he doesn’t get a reply, he worries. So, as soon as he’s done at work, he makes his way to her apartment. Ava opens the door for him with red-rimmed eyes and messed up hair.

Ava leaves the door open for him to come in and makes her way to the couch. Mickey sits on the it with Ava, and asks her,

“What’s up with you?”

And Ava _crumbles._

She moves closer to him and Mickey, despite being extremely out of his depth here, wraps his arms around her. She sniffles into his chest and says, in a miserable, tear-filled voice,

“Erica broke up with me.”

And Mickey _knows_ how this must feel. Maybe it’s not _exactly_ like being dumped by your boyfriend (partner, lover, family) of years, after you came out for him, and he ran away from you twice, (once with his shitty mother) on his front porch. But no matter what the details are, it’s shitty to be broken up with, and Mickey’s heart hurts thinking about his friend going through that shittiness.

Mickey tightens his arms around her, and asks, “When?”

“Yesterday. When we met for lunch.”

Mickey winces, remembering how awful he was feeling the day after his breakup with Ian.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s get shit-faced then.”

It’s probably not what a shrink would want him to do, but fuck it.

They somehow decide to move the—very sad—party to the bedroom, and two beers and a lot of chocolates and candies later, they’re pleasantly buzzed and are sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

After finishing her third beer, Ava lets out a very sad and bitter laugh and says, “She said we weren’t working out anymore.”

Mickey sits up and rests his back against the headboard, and Ava moves too, and her shoulder ends up on Mickey’s shoulder. She looks up at him with tear-filled eyes, and says, in a broken voice that _hurts_ Mickey,

“ _Mickey_. Mick. She said _we weren’t working anymore._ She said it hadn’t been working out for _months_ now. Mickey, I was _happy_ for those months. Fuck, I thought we were working _perfectly._ How did I not see it? Fuck, Mick, _how did I not see it?_ What the fuck was I _thinking?”_

She’s fully crying now and Mickey again pulls her to him, trying to hold back his tears too because.

Because, _fuck_ does it sound familiar.

Mickey doesn’t say anything because, even now, he doesn’t know what _he_ wanted to hear when he found out that Ian had been cheating on him during all those months that Mickey thought they were _happy._ He doesn’t know what he wanted to hear when his _I love you_ was met with _What does that even mean?_ He doesn’t know what would’ve comforted him when Ian broke up with him.

 _Nothing,_ Mickey thinks. The answer is nothing.

So they just sit there in silence and cry and drink and eat chocolates. And Mickey eventually breaks it by saying,

“I had a boyfriend, you know? Ian, his name was. Is. Whatever.”

Ava touches his hand to acknowledge that she’s listening. Mickey’s sure she’s interested but is too tired to show it, because this is the first time Mickey has made any mention of his love life. Or lack thereof.

So Mickey tells her, tells her everything. Tells her about how they met and hears her chuckle lightly. Tells her about being shot by Kash and his first stint in juvie, and feels her hand tighten on his upon hearing about the gunshot to his leg. He tells her about Ian getting him a job and how he’d look at Mickey like was the greatest thing in the world, even when he so obviously wasn’t. Mickey tells her about Frank finding out and how he was scared _shitless_ and the horrible things he said to Ian, that he still regrets and probably always will. She holds his hand tighter.

Mickey tells her about coming out of juvie the second time and he tells her about kissing Ian for the first time and she laughs softly and tells him he was _a dramatic fuck,_ with fondness in her voice. Mickey tells her about being shot in the ass and about Ned and she snorts and sighs oh _the things we do for love_ and he lightly slaps her on her thigh. He tells her about inviting Ian over that night and how perfect it was and then he stops. Takes a deep breath, and continues before she can look up at him.

Mickey tells her about Terry catching them, about Svetlana, and Ava lets out this sob or something like it and wraps her arms around him and says _fuck, Mickey,_ in this overwhelmed voice. Mickey feels bad for springing all this on her now, when she feels so miserable herself. But he _wants_ to tell her, and Mickey distantly thinks about the fact that this is the first time he’s talked to anyone about this. He hasn’t even talked to _Ian_ about this.

They stay silent for a long while after that, and then finally Ava looks up and asks him, “What happened next?”

So he tells her what happened next.

Tells her everything from _Don’t, what?_ till _This is you breaking up with me_ and _Yeah, Mick, it is_ and _Fuck._

Mickey doesn’t realise he’s crying till about halfway through, when Ava wipes the tears from his cheeks.

When he’s said it all, they don’t say anything, they just throw the wrappers and beer bottles to the floor, and lay on the bed together.

They’re still holding each other’s hands as they fall asleep.

—

The next morning, over coffee, Ava quietly tells him,

“I don’t think I really like him, Mickey.”

She doesn’t have to use the name for Mickey to know who she’s talking about.

“But you still love him, don’t you.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to. It wasn’t a question, anyway. 

—

Before he leaves, they hug for a long, long time. Mickey is surprised by himself when he quietly tells her that,

“It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. Trust me.”

Ava tightens her hold on him and nods.

Mickey thinks that he said it for the both of them.

—

It’s surreal really, Mickey thinks as he’s sitting on the L on his way back home.

Surreal that he told another person so much, that he trusted another person enough to tell them that. Surreal that he doesn’t regret it.

It’s strange because he hasn’t ever talked to anyone about any of this. Everyone in his life either didn’t care to know or already knew what was going on with him. He’s never actually sat down and _talked_ about it. He never even expected himself to do it.

It’s strange and surreal, but he doesn’t feel bad about it. He actually feels light, in a way he never has before.

Mickey sighs deeply and looks out the L windows at the city around him.

—

Mickey thinks it’s interesting how Ian and him thrived in the summer, but didn’t survive the winter.

It’s like their relationship was somehow connected to the weather; the colder it got, the worse their state.

He wishes they could’ve thrived all year. 

—

Two days after their emotional rollercoaster of an evening, Mickey and Ava get matching [tattoos](https://www.oprahmag.com/life/relationships-love/g28835454/matching-friendship-tattoos/?slide=6).

It’s cheesy as fuck, and Mickey doesn’t know how Ava talked him into it.

But still, he doesn’t regret it.

Doesn’t regret it at all.

—

So much happened in his house, is the thing. So much _bad_ shit happened in this house.

There’s that awful, awful couch in the living room. Actually, the entire living room reminds him of _that day_. If he thinks too hard about it, every single part of the house that Ian and Mickey spent time in before Terry found them, somehow leads him to remember all of _it._

And if, somehow, he manages to avoid thinking about _that_ , he’s bombarded with memories of all the other shitty things that happened in this house.

Every corner of the house reminds him of that one time Terry hit one of them there. He sees his kitchen and remembers his Mom getting a concussion after Terry slammed her head against a wall in it. He sees the floor and remembers that time when he was 7 and tripped and made the horrible mistake of crying out in pain, and Terry hitting him with his belt because of it.

Sure, there are the good memories too. Of roughhousing with his brothers, of spending time with Mandy, of _Ian_. Of his Mom.

But none of the people are in his life anymore and remembering about them hurts too.

It makes Mickey miserable, staying in that house. He increases the frequency of his visits to Ava’s apartment, stays as late as he can at work, takes long walks on the weekend and does everything he can think of to _avoid his house._

So, naturally, when he hears that Dan’s brother owns an apartment building and eventually finds out that there’s a vacancy there, Mickey jumps at the chance to leave behind the torture chamber that is the Milkovich house.

—

Mickey has to take some money from Iggy to be able to give the deposit and shit and Mickey keeps telling Iggy that he’ll pay him back in a few months, until Iggy slaps him (unnecessarily hard, if you ask Mickey) on his head and tells him to _shut the fuck up_ and _pay me back by buying me beer._

(And Mickey moving out also allows Iggy to move into the Milkovich house with his girlfriend (who had been asking Iggy to get get their own place), so it’s kind of a win-win.)

The good thing about having _friends,_ Mickey finds, is that if they have a brother who owns an apartment building you want to move into, you get a slight discount on the rent.

The day before he’s set to move into the apartment, Mickey looks around his house and lets the fact that he’s _finally fucking leaving_ settle in. One last time, he lets all the memories—good and bad—wash over him and just takes a moment.

Within a week of finding about the apartment, Mickey moves in and it feels so _good_ that he can’t stop grinning. He sits in his apartment, soaking it all in, and drinks a beer.

Mickey breathes.

—

Sometimes, Mickey thinks about his books and he thinks about _whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same_ and he wonders if he’s the Heathcliff or the Cathy in his and Ian’s story.

If he’s the one being haunted, or if he’s the ghost.

—

After Ava’s moaning about how _boring_ they were and how they _need to go out_ gets entirely too much, Mickey finally gives in and asks _where do you want to go, bitch?_

And that’s how they end up at a club on a Friday night.

Ava sticks around long enough to have two drinks with him, before she finally finds a girl that catches her eye, and then she’s off sucking face with said girl in a corner. Mickey shakes his head to himself and returns to his loyal drink, idly looking around the place.

He’s thinking about a kiss he once had at a club not too different from this one, when someone approaches him and says,

“Hey.”

It takes Mickey a moment to process that someone just talked, another to process that said someone just talked to _him_ , and another to turn to look at the amused stranger next to him.

“Hey,” Mickey replies, and mentally pats himself on the back for not stuttering.

“I’m Lucas,” the stranger says. The stranger who Mickey sees is not half bad looking, with grey eyes and dark skin, and who’s (like most people tend to be) taller than Mickey. A lot taller.

“Mickey,” Mickey says.

“Can I buy you a drink, Mickey?” Lucas asks with a smirk, and Mickey says, _Sure._

Lucas buys him a drink and eventually, they end up at Mickey’s place (because its closer) and Mickey has sex for the first time in months.

—

Lucas isn’t bad looking by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s also not bed at the fucking thing. Really, the guy isn’t doing anything wrong, and under normal circumstances, Mickey would be over the moon at how his night’s going.

Since these _aren’t_ normal circumstances, however…

Mickey hates it.

They kiss and Mickey hates it. They tumble into bed and take off each other’s clothes and Mickey hates it. Lucas settles his tall, strong body over Mickey and Mickey hates it. Lucas fingers Mickey open while making out with him and sucking marks into Mickey’s neck, and Mickey hates it. Mickey runs his fingers across the smooth skin of Lucas’ strong back and hates the feel of it. Lucas fucks Mickey into the mattress _good and hard,_ but Mickey doesn’t _love it,_ he _hates it_ with everything in him.

Mickey wanted this. Mickey hoped against hope that he’d like it and it’ll be good. And it _is_ good, everything the guy is doing is _right,_ but Mickey keeps thinking about how his body is the wrong one, how his fingers are the wrong ones, how the guy is the _wrong guy_ because he isn’t _Ian fucking Gallagher_ and Mickey hates it.

Lucas strokes his cock and makes him come and Mickey wants to _cry_ because this isn’t _right._

Mickey wants to cry because if a tall, dark, sexy as fuck guy isn’t _right_ then who will be? He wants to cry because he knows the answer is _no one no one no one._

Just Ian Gallagher.

As soon as they’ve both got their breath back, Lucas puts on his clothes, gives Mickey one last kiss and is out the door. The only sign that he was ever here is the number he left for Mickey to _call him, sometime._

Mickey wants to scream. He wants to go over to North Wallace right now and drag Ian’s skinny ass out and tell him to _scream at him_ because he’s ruined Mickey for anyone else.

More than that, Mickey wants to beat _himself_ up because he’s been ruined for anyone else since the first time he ever slept with that ginger fuck. Mickey wants to scream because he _knew_ that this would happen, he _knew_ he couldn’t be with someone else. So why the _fuck_ did he have to give himself concrete fucking proof of the fact?

He wants wants _wants_ Ian.

He _needs_ Ian. There’s this sudden, all-consuming _need_ within him to be next to Ian right now and he’s losing his mind thinking about the fact that he _can’t have him now_ because Ian Gallagher is a fucking _dumbass._

Mickey flips over and _screams_ into his pillow.

There are tears of sheer frustration welling up in his eyes and Mickey is fucking _tired_ of crying so he goes into the kitchen and grabs his six-pack of beer, before making his way back to the bedroom.

Mickey lies there and drinks until he can calm down enough to go the fuck to sleep.

—

Before Mickey knows it, four months have gone by since he started his job.

—

He hasn’t been around his neighbourhood for a while, so he decides to hang around there, for no reason in particular. Maybe because, after months, he finally feels like he won’t pass out at the thought of having to visit his and Ian’s old haunts.

Mickey walks around and eventually ends up at the abandoned buildings. He sits on the roof of one of them, watching the sunset and thinks about how much shit has happened to him since the last time he was here. Thinks about how he has his own apartment now, how he has friends. Thinks about the bank account he recently opened and his second ( _also_ legal) job at the café next door. (It’s not exactly a _job_ per se. He helps the nice old guy who runs it with his bookkeeping and shit. Mickey had helped Harry once, when Mickey saw him bent over the books with a frown on his face. Since then, Harry makes Mickey look over them and _insists_ on paying him, too. Mickey eventually decided to not look a gift horse in the mouth, because, frankly, as nice as living in your own apartment was, it was also expensive as all _fuck._ )

Mickey thinks about how different he is from the guy who came here the last time, but also how similar.

Because, he’s still as in love with (if not more) with Ian Gallagher as he was years ago, despite the jobs and the friends and the apartment and the nicer (cleaner) clothes and his recently opened bank account.

Mickey doesn’t think that will ever change.

And because the universe absolutely _hates_ him (or loves him), just as he’s about to get up to go back down, he hears,

“Mickey?”

and feels his heart stop in his chest.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. 
> 
> first of all, i want to thank all of the people who dropped comments on the last chapter, or any of the previous ones, that i haven't replied to. i read (and reread multiple times) all of them, and you guys have no idea how much they mean. i'm sorry i couldn't reply. i love you all. 
> 
> secondly, i kind of wasn't feeling all that hot and that's why it took that long to update. (it's just a few weeks but still)
> 
> thirdly, YAY ian shows up next chapter guys!!!!
> 
> i totally planned on them actually interacting in this one, but i want to do it right, and so i put it in the next chapter, so that any residual depressive emotions i might have don't somehow end up in the story. 
> 
> also, i want to make it clear that lucas and mickey's thing was completely consensual. lucas was a cool dude. it's just a case of mickey missing his soulmate. 😇
> 
> thank you for reading!!!! 💕


	7. lies, breaths, and looks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we lie to ourselves a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have ian. have all the ian that i could put into 8k+ words.

_Mickey._

Fuck him, honestly.

Fuck Ian Gallagher and the way he says Mickey’s name like its… like it’s _important_. Fuck him for showing up here, months after leaving Mickey. After months that feel both like years, _centuries_ , and also like seconds, the pain still so fresh. Fuck him for showing up _here,_ in these buildings that are so important to _them_ , buildings that remind Mickey of _them._

Fuck him. Fuck him. _Fuck him._

Fuck him for making Mickey’s chest hurt with all the love he feels for him, even now.

Fuck him for being so beautiful in the light of the setting sun. Fuck him and his red hair that look like they’re on fire with the way they are glowing. Fuck him for his wide green eyes, that look surprised and relieved and happy and hopeful and scared, all at once.

And, most of all, fuck Mickey for seeing and understanding all of Ian Gallagher’s emotions, even now.

Mickey wishes he didn’t know.

Mickey’s so happy that he still knows.

His eyes are suspiciously blurry and he still can’t breathe properly, feeling like he’s holding his breath in his lungs. Mickey feels like he’s too scared to breathe, for some reason. Scared that his breathing will lead to something happening, something he doesn’t want.

Ian stares at him and Mickey stares back, and, for a moment, it feels like they’re suspended in time. Like, from the moment Ian said _Mickey_ , everything around them stopped. Waiting, waiting, waiting. But for what, Mickey doesn’t know.

The moment ends, though, when Ian takes a half step forward, or is about to, and Mickey panics. He doesn’t know if he can take… whatever the fuck _this_ is. Whatever the fuck Ian wants from him right now. Or doesn’t want. Maybe Ian didn’t want to see Mickey, and now that he has, he is about to make terribly awkward small talk. Mickey internally shudders at the thought.

Or maybe he _wanted_ to see Mickey and he’s about to say something that Mickey doesn’t want to hear. (Mickey wants to hear everything Ian has to say. Always.)

So, yeah. Like any normal, healthy, functioning adult, Mickey decides to bolt because fuck awkward run-ins with your ex.

Mickey finally gets his breathing moderately under control and quickly moves towards the staircase leading down and. Well.

The teeny, tiny problem with that? Ian is standing right there. Because _of course_ he’s blocking Mickey’s one exit. Fuck that ginger asshole.

Actually, Mickey _could_ jump from the edge. That’s a pretty good option.

So yeah: Mickey is fucked because he is a colossal moron.

Mickey is also currently within arms reach of the love of his life. The love of his life that dumped him.

And Mickey is totally _not_ thinking about how close Ian is right now. How he can feel his body heat. How they’re closer than they’ve been for _months._

It takes another, softer _Mickey_ to leave Ian’s mouth for Mickey to shake his head and mutter _No_ before he’s pushing past Ian (Oh fuck he touched him. Mickey touched Ian. Mickey _touched_ Ian. Jesus. _Fuck_ ) and rushing down the stairs.

And, really, fuck Ian for following him down the stairs.

Fuck _everything_ because all of this feels so familiar.

Mickey running away in this exact place and Ian coming after him and then—

Yeah, Mickey isn’t going there. He’d rather keep the tears at bay until he’s safely hidden in his apartment.

This time, Mickey barely moves away from the entrance before Ian is grabbing his arm and turning him around and pushing back back back until Mickey feels the wall of the building behind him, and.

And there, right in front of Mickey, so fucking close, is Ian Gallagher and there’s barely an inch of space between them and Mickey feels like _now_ he can breathe. That after months of being suffocated, _now_ , stuck between a wall and Ian Gallagher, Mickey can _finally_ draw in a full breath.

He feels like crying, feels like sobbing in relief. Feels like screaming because he wants wants _wants_ this man in front of him _so much_ , even after _everything._

Mickey feels _complete._

“Don’t run away from me,” Ian says in the space between them and Mickey absolutely _has_ to scoff at that. He looks up from where he was staring at Ian’s chest (can you _honestly_ blame him?) and cocks an incredulous eyebrow at Ian as if he is entirely unaffected by his presence. As if his heart isn’t trying to beat out of his chest and as if seeing Ian’s face so close to his after _so long_ doesn’t nearly render him speechless.

“You kidding me right now?” Mickey asks him, because _really?_

Ian gives him a small, sheepish smile at that, the bastard.

Mickey loves him.

“Yeah. Well. I just—“ Ian stutters, and Mickey does _not_ find it endearing. Fuck this piece of shit.

“You gonna say anything properly anytime soon, or?” Mickey asks and, really, where _the fuck_ is all this confidence coming from because inside? Mickey is losing his fucking shit.

“Fuck. I need to talk to you. I don’t even know how I got lucky enough to find you here, but, whatever. I just really needed to talk to you, to _see_ you,” Ian says.

Jesus.

What the fuck is Mickey supposed to do with _that?_

_Lucky enough to find you here_? What, has Ian been _looking_ for him? What the fuck? Mickey doesn’t even know what part to lose his shit over first.

“Yeah? Well, you saw me. Are we done? Will you let me go now, Gallagher?” Mickey is going to treat himself to a six pack when he gets home because who could’ve thought that Mickey Milkovich could keep his cool around Ian Gallagher, _especially_ when he feels like he’s unraveling at the seams at Ian’s proximity.

“No. I just. Mickey, you. You look good,” Ian says and Mickey _really doesn’t know what to do with all this._

“Yeah. Uh. Okay. You look good too,” and he _does._ Ian _does_ look good. He doesn’t look like a ghost, doesn’t look like he’s barely here. He doesn’t have that vacant, emotionless look on his face, like he doesn’t care about anything. But, well, it’s not like he looked bad to Mickey then, either. He’s always been beautiful to Mickey. Always will be. But yeah, Ian looks good and _alive_ and Mickey’s happy for him. He really is.

But it hurts too.

Hurts that Ian looks like this after breaking up with Mickey. Looks _good and alive_ after he dumped Mickey on his front porch. Looks like the decision to leave Mickey was good for him.

So, yeah, it hurts.

Ian cracks a small smile at that, and it looks kind of sad, and Mickey doesn’t want that. Doesn’t ever want Ian looking sad. Then Ian says,

“I really want to talk to you, Mick. I want—I want to apologise. I’m—“ Ian doesn’t get to complete that sentences because Mickey stops him with a hand on his chest and by closing his own eyes. Mickey shakes his head.

He can’t. Mickey _can’t_ hear Ian say he’s sorry. And sorry for what, exactly? For cheating? For leaving when Mickey wanted him to go to a doctor? For hitting him when all Mickey did was care? For leaving again? For leaving again with _Monica_? For returning, only to tell Mickey that he didn’t want him anymore?

Or does Ian want to say, _I’m sorry I dumped you but, look, it’s done me good. I’m better now. I left you and I’m better. You can see it too, can’t you?_

What is Ian sorry _for?_

Mickey doesn’t want to know. Even if it is for all the ways he hurt Mickey, Mickey doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to hear any of it. He can’t bear to listen to Ian list all the ways he fucked up and not break down. And he absolutely _doesn’t_ want to break down in front of Ian. He would’ve, months ago, before everything. But now Mickey can’t.

He _won’t_.

Mickey fists his hand in the material of Ian’s shirt (he _doesn’t_ think about the skin underneath) and again looks down and says, “Don’t. _Don’t_ , Ian.”

Mickey keeps looking down until Ian tilts his chin up using the tip of his finger, and _jesus christ_ does Mickey feel like he’s falling apart just from that small bit of skin-on-skin contact. Mickey closes his eyes and doesn’t look at Ian until Ian says, _Mickey_ , with so much sadness and desperation and something else in his voice that isn’t— _can’t_ be—love.

Mickey opens his eyes and Ian is so _so close_ and they’re breathing the same air and Mickey isn’t strong enough to not let Ian close the distance between them but he doesn’t know if he should, and Ian’s leaning in and they’re getting closer closer closer but they’re still looking at each other and Mickey’s head is a fucking _mess_ —

Thank God for cellphones and their impeccable (horrible) timing.

It’s Ian’s. Mickey knows because, first, its the same one he had _before_ and, secondly, they’re so close Mickey can feel it vibrating in Ian’s pocket. (Fucking hell.)

This time, _Ian_ closes his eyes in frustration and Mickey finally gets the strength to gently push Ian away. Ian opens his wide at that and Mickey shakes his head no at him, and says, “Don’t follow me, Ian.”

Ian must see something in his eyes because he, surprisingly, backs off. He obviously doesn’t look very happy about it, and before he can say anything, Mickey is walking away.

Mickey doesn’t turn back around, even if he feels like running back to Ian and never, ever, leaving his side again.

—

Mickey reaches his apartment and doesn’t remember shit about the journey back there.

He’s pretty much in a daze as he walks around the apartment, putting his wallet and keys and phone on the bedside table. Taking off his shoes and socks. Putting on his sweatpants and an old comfy t-shirt with cut-off sleeves.

He goes to the kitchen and takes out the chocolate ice-cream that he’d bought earlier this week from the freezer, and then grabs the bottle of vodka, before getting comfy on the kitchen floor.

So Mickey sits there, on his kitchen floor, and eats chocolate ice cream and drinks vodka until his butt starts to hurt. He then migrates to the sofa and proceeds to do the same there.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. Doesn’t know how much time it takes to make his way through more than half the tub of ice-cream. Doesn’t know how long it takes to finish the entire bottle of vodka. Doesn’t know how long he lays there on his couch, staring at the ceiling, before he finally passes out.

All he knows is that, throughout all that, he keeps thinking about Ian.

—

His hangover, and the pain in his back and neck from sleeping on the couch, distract him from thinking about Ian for most of the following day.

The backache and the nausea and the urge to commit homicide is kind of worth it. At least he’s not thinking about _I just really needed to talk to you, to see you_ and _You look good_ and worst of all, _I want to apologise._

He calls Ava in the evening, because of course he does, and their conversation goes like this:

“Saw Ian yesterday.”

“Oh, fuck, really?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Fuck._ ”

A sigh from Mickey. “Yep.”

“Well, what’d he say? What happened? Did you guys fuck?”

“Said I looked good, and that he wanted, _needed_ , to see me and talk to me. Fucking _apologise_ to me. Almost kissed? I think. Didn’t fuck. Kinda wanted to. His phone rang before anything could happen.”

“Huh.”

—

When they meet for work the next day, Ava gives him a giant hug and tells him with her eyes that _I’m here if you wanna talk_ and Mickey nods because he knows, but there’s nothing to say.

She gets it.

When he checks his phone on the way back from work, he sees a new message from a number he recognises almost too well.

_Hey. It’s Ian._

Fucker.

But Mickey has to deal with another piece of shit first before he can deal with any ginger ones.

“You gave him my number, didn’t you, you prick?”

“Well,” Iggy says, ever the eloquent one.

“Well, what, fuckface? Why’d you do that? Couldn’t have told him to fuck off? Couldn’t have told him that you didn’t you have it? Couldn’t have given me a fucking heads-up?” Mickey hisses, because here he was thinking that this asshole was a _good brother_.

Iggy snorts on the other end of the phone, and Mickey’s eyebrows climb up his forehead because _the fucking audacity._

“Please. You honestly wanted me to tell him to fuck off?” Iggy asks.

Mickey doesn’t answer. (It’s the principle of the thing. Fuck Iggy.)

“Yeah, thought so. Anyway, I _did_ tell him to fuck off. I told him to fuck off every time he showed up at the house for the past few days.” Iggy tells him and, _what?_

“What?”

“Yep. He came over about, like, a week ago, wanting to see you. I told him you weren’t there and he said he’d come back. I told him you weren’t there as in _you weren’t living there_ , and I guess he didn’t believe me. So he kept coming back and I kept telling him to fuck off, like you said. Then he came over yesterday and kept going on about how if you didn’t want to talk to him, that was your decision, not mine, and so I should give him your number. Annoying fuck wouldn’t leave. Finally, Sophie had enough and gave him your number, just to get rid of him. Never seen someone look so smug before, that’s for sure.” Iggy says.

They’re silent for a moment: Iggy taking a breath after that monologue—Mickey can’t blame him because it’s probably the first time his brother has said so much at one time—and Mickey digesting all of… _that._

So Ian _had_ been looking for him, trying to contact him.

Mickey isn’t pleased by that. Like, at all.

Not even a little bit.

“Oh,” Mickey says, at length.

“Yeah. Kinda wanted to punch him,” Iggy drawls.

Mickey’s hackles rise, “Fuck you. If you touched him—“

Iggy snorts, _again_ , and says, “Not touching anyone, bro. Just teasing you. _Tell him to fuck off,_ my ass.”

That’s just rude, in Mickey’s honest opinion.

“Go fuck yourself,” Mickey tells him.

“Love you too, bro.”

—

Mickey’s not a very strong human being. This he learns upon replying to Ian’s message, even though he _vehemently_ told himself he wasn’t going to.

It’s just a simple thumbs up emoji, but it still reeks of weakness, and Mickey wants to punch himself.

—

Ian is annoying.

Mickey has always known that. Mickey has loved him for it. (Still does) But, like, that was _then_ andthis is _now_ , so yeah.

It’s different.

Ian is annoying because, every day, he texts Mickey a _hey_ in the morning and then a _good night, mick._ at night.

Every day, since that day he sent that first text.

And Mickey ignores him.

It takes everything in him to not text back a _hey_ or _what do you want_ or _stop texting me_ or _i love you._

Mickey thinks that if he gave Ian any kind of opening, that’ll be the death of his already _very_ weak resolve. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t block Ian’s number, doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell Ian once and for all that Mickey wants nothing to do with him, doesn’t know why he doesn’t text back.

It’s like he’s waiting for something, but Mickey also doesn’t know what exactly that is.

It’s awful, but Mickey looks forward to these texts, these little reminders that Ian is thinking of him, that he remembers Mickey when he wakes up and before he goes to bed. He tells himself that he’s just waiting for the day that these texts stop, because they _will_. Because Ian _will_ give up. Ian will get tired and think that Mickey isn’t worth the effort and just stop, one day.

Mickey doesn’t like that his heart _aches_ when he thinks about the possibility of Ian stopping. He doesn’t like that he doesn’t want Ian to stop. Mickey wants Ian to weaken his resolve, to break down his walls, to make Mickey trust him again.

Mickey _wants._ Mickey wants Ian.

Mickey ignores Ian until it’s been three weeks since the texts started.

—

One Monday, Mickey wakes up to a call from Iggy, and Mickey already knows something big has happened. His heart is racing as he picks up the phone and before he can even say hello, Iggy says,

“Dad’s dead.”

Mickey exhales shakily and closes his eyes and asks, “How?”

“Some guy shanked him in prison. He pissed off the wrong guys I guess. Died last night.”

“Fuck,” Mickey says.

“Yeah.” Iggy replies, monotone.

Neither of them know what to say, so they say nothing for a while, and then Iggy hangs up.

—

Mickey texts Ian half an hour after Iggy’s call.

_Terry died._

Ian replies ten minuter later with an _Oh._

Mickey guesses deaths of rapist, abusive, psychopathic fathers leave people speechless.

After thinking on it for just a moment, Mickey sends: _Meet me at the dugouts at 9 tonight?_

It isn’t even a minute later that Ian replies.

_I’ll be there._

—

Mickey reaches the dugouts at exactly 9 that night to find Ian already there.

So, maybe Mickey didn’t exactly think the location through and he’s regretting it right now. He can’t help but think of the last time they were here, and he’s sure that Ian is thinking of it too. How could they not? But then again, where else would they meet? Everywhere they could go to talk will remind them of either them fucking or fighting, or both: their houses, the abandoned buildings, the dugouts, the fucking Alibi (although if they _are_ talking about Terry, that would be nostalgic). Mickey can’t invite Ian over to his apartment. Not now. at least. And there are some good memories of this place, so he’ll just concentrate on that.

Mickey makes his way over to where Ian is resting against the fence, looking up at the sky and quietly says, “Hey.”

Ian’s head whips in his direction fast enough to be comical, and Mickey wants to laugh, or at least smile fondly, at this idiot, but he refrains. Before Ian can stand up, Mickey goes and sits down next to him.

“Hey,” Ian replies hesitantly.

And, yeah. It hurts Mickey that this, that this _hesitance_ is between them now. But he can’t do anything to fix it, so.

They sit in silence for a beat or two, and then Mickey says, “Thought you would change your mind and not show up.” Because it’s true.

“I said I’ll be here, didn’t I?” Ian says.

“Yeah. Well.” Mickey says back.

The _I didn’t really believe you_ is there, even if it isn’t said.

The silence is uncomfortable and stifling. Mickey hates it.

“So. Terry’s dead.” Mickey says, looking up at the night sky.

“Yeah. Been thinking about it all day and can’t really believe it, to be honest,” Ian says quietly.

“Me neither.”

The silence this time is a tad bit more comfortable.

“Don’t know what the fuck to feel about it,” Mickey tells Ian.

“Well, I’d say happiness and relief, but,” Ian doesn’t continue.

“But?” Mickey finally faces Ian to find him already staring at Mickey.

“But, I feel like if Frank died, I wouldn’t know what to feel either. I mean, yeah, who wouldn’t be glad that that piece of shit is dead. But still, it’ll be like this impossible thing happened and I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” Ian says, looking into Mickey’s eyes intently.

“It was hard for me to even imagine that Terry could die, sometimes. Like, whenever shit got too much, I’d think about him dying, but there was a part of me that always believed that it couldn’t happen. No matter what, he’ll always be there. And now… he’s not,” Mickey says.

Ian nods and they look at each other for a moment too long before Mickey turns his head to look up at the starless sky again.

“How’d he die, though?” Ian asks.

“Shanked.”

Ian snorts and says, “Of course.”

And yeah. Of course. How else would Terry Milkovich die?

A beat and then, “Can I ask you something?”

Mickey’s heart races and he swallows around the lump in his throat before he says, “Yeah.”

“Why’d you wanna see me? Or text me, for that matter?”

And Mickey knows that Ian doesn’t mean _you ignored me for three weeks, but_ now _you wanna talk?_ or _who said I wanted to talk about your dead father?_

Mickey knows Ian just means _Why me? After everything, why do you want to share this with_ me?

Mickey looks at Ian and says, “I don’t know.”

He hopes Ian understands that what he means is _I knew you’ll understand. After everything he put us through, you’d know how I feel._

From the look on his face, Ian gets it.

Mickey’s heart soars and breaks at the fact that they _still_ have this. That they still _get_ each other, like no one else does. That they’ll probably always know each other in a way that no one’s ever known them, or will know.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Ian says.

“Me too,” Mickey replies, because he is, despite everything.

—

About two hours later, Mickey returns home with a small smile on his lips.

He takes off his shoes by the entrance, and then makes his way into the living room, thinking about his time at the dugouts.

For the rest of the night, Mickey moves through the apartment, doing one thing or the other, constantly remembering the conversation he had with Ian.

He’s in the kitchen, heating up his frozen pizza when he thinks about Ian telling him about getting a job as an EMT, and smiles.

_So I’m going to become an EMT,_ Ian had said, shyly.

Mickey had been pleasantly surprised, but it wasn’t much of a shock, really, because this was _Ian._ Of course he’d become a fucking _EMT_.

_Really? Fuck, Ian, that’s great,_ Mickey had replied, laughing slightly and feeling immeasurably proud.

Ian had looked at him, then, and had given him this small, pleased smile, like Mickey’s approval meant everything to him. Mickey’s heart had _ached._

Then Ian had gone on to tell him how he’d seen an accident, and the absolute selfless moron that he is, had jumped in to help the driver. The subsequent meetings with the firemen who had saved his life, had eventually led to the EMT idea.

(Mickey doesn’t know why, and can’t be sure if he was imagining it, but Ian had looked uncomfortable when Mickey had talked about how it was such a huge fucking coincidence that Ian had been on that bridge that night for whatever reason.)

He’s putting his clothes into the washing machine when he thinks about how the other Gallaghers are doing.

_She carried a fuckin’ bag of flour?! The fuck?_ Mickey had exclaimed when Ian had told him about the whole Debbie-Fiona drama.

Ian had laughed and Mickey’s heart had _soared_ at the sound. _Yeah. Yeah she did,_ Ian had said.

_Fucking Gallaghers, I swear to God. Jesus,_ Mickey had said, surprisingly fond.

Ian had looked at him like he’d heard the fondness too.

When he’s finally in bed, Mickey thinks about how the only time _Mickey’s_ life these past few months had been discussed was when Ian had, quietly, asked _So you moved out then, huh?_ and Mickey had said, _Yeah. Guess I did_ , equally quietly.

As much as he’d liked _(loved)_ the time they spent together, and despite Ian’s texts the past few weeks, Mickey isn’t ready yet to disclose anything about his life now. His new life. He can’t tell Ian about his job, about his friends from there, about Ava, about his apartment. They feel like Mickey’s safe spaces.

The thing is, Mickey is scared. If things with Ian manage to go to shit eventually, like they always tend to do, he can’t bear the thought of all these new places not being _his_ anymore. Can’t bear the thought of having nowhere to hide from Ian, and from everything that they are together.

(And it makes him so happy that Ian understood that. If not completely, at least he got that Mickey didn’t want to share anything, and for once in his life, Ian had decided to not push.)

His last thought before he finally falls asleep is how he didn’t even think of Terry after they’d moved on from his topic that night to talk about other things.

—

Mickey wakes up the next morning to see two texts on his phone. One from last night that he hadn’t seen, and one from this morning.

_Goodnight, Mickey._

_Hey, Mick. :)_

Mickey smiles, and types _Hey._ back.

—

Despite what Ava says, nothing’s _changed_ between them. _Nothing_ is happening between them. It isn’t a big deal.

So, yeah, after that night at the dugouts, they’d started texting occasionally. Like, they’d started from a few texts here and there, and then a few days later, they were texting constantly throughout the day. _It isn’t a big deal_. Sometimes they just have these random thoughts that they want to share with each other so they text. So fucking what?

(“You have random thoughts you want to tell the other about _all day_? You do realise what that implies, don’t you, babe?” Ava had asked.

Mickey had given her the middle-finger.)

_It doesn’t mean anything_ that Ian texts him random pictures of things he sees everyday. Doesn’t mean anything that he sends pictures of Frank passed out to Mickey. Doesn’t mean anything that Ian tells him about all the gory things he sees at his job.

Doesn’t mean anything that it seems like he texts Mickey whenever he has a bad day at work when he sees something particularly disturbing. Doesn’t mean anything that Mickey tries his best to comfort him and talks to him late into the night on those days, until they fall asleep.

_It doesn’t matter._

It doesn’t matter that after a few weeks of these texts, they start calling each other.

It’s Ian who starts it, of course.

It’s a Sunday evening, and Mickey is just lying on the couch watching some superhero movie, when he sees his phone light up with Ian’s call. His heart thuds against his chest and he suddenly finds his mouth dry. Mickey’s scared that something bad has happened because Ian hasn’t called him since this thing started. He nervously picks up the phone and is greeted by Ian’s pleased voice, _Hey._

(It doesn’t mean anything that Mickey’s nerves fly out of the window upon hearing that voice and butterflies flood his stomach.)

“Hey. You okay? Mickey asks, still slightly worried.

“Oh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Ian questions back.

“Don’t know, man. It’s not like you calling me is a thing that happens a lot. Figured something must have happened,” Mickey tells him.

“Ah. Everything’s fine, don’t worry, Mick. Just thought that with all the texting, it’s weird that we never call each other,” Ian tells him, sounding kind of sheepish.

Mickey snorts, because that’s a very shitty excuse, but whatever. It’s not like it means anything.

“Oh, yeah? So talk then, Gallagher,” Mickey tells him, amused.

It doesn’t mean anything that they talk for more than an hour.

—

That night, Mickey tries his best to not think about the last time Ian had called him. Tries his absolute hardest to block the memories of that morning and that front porch and those words.

He obviously fails.

—

About a month and a half into their… whatever it is, Mickey thinks about how Ian is his _friend_. How he has always been.

These texts and calls and the way they can talk endlessly about anything and everything, the way they poke fun at each other and laugh together, the way they’re so comfortable with each other, remind him of how they were best friends too, _before._

Mickey had always considered Ian his best friend. During those summers at the Kash and Grab, when for whatever reason they weren’t fucking, they’d _talk._ In the beginning, it was mostly Ian talking, the chatterbox that he is, Mickey thinks fondly. But then, slowly, steadily, Mickey had started talking too. They’d tell each other about their families, discuss sports, rant about their favourite movies and actors. Just. They’d talk about everything, and it all came so naturally and easily to them.

Actually, Ian had been Mickey’s only friend too. And Mickey knew that even though Lip and Ian were close, and Mandy and Ian were best friends, what they had was different. The whole Gay in Southside thing was something that only they understood, and he thinks that they just _got_ each other in a way that was different and new and really, really good.

So yeah, Ian had been Mickey’s best friend, and he thinks that despite the fact that it doesn’t mean anything, they’re becoming best friends again.

Mickey likes the thought of that.

—

Texts turned into calls and, eventually, calls turn into them meeting at their old spots, or at some place else, occasionally.

Unlike with the calls and texts, Mickey can’t pinpoint how this whole meeting-each-other thing started. One day, he just found himself at the dugouts waiting for Ian to show up so that they could _hang out_. (Ian’s stupid-ass words, not his.)

Ian shows up with burgers (they’re from that place Mickey likes. _It doesn’t mean anything_ ) and it’s as they’re eating them, and Ian is telling him about his coworker, Sue, that Mickey makes a slip. They’re laughing about something she said and Mickey thinks it sounds very familiar so he says, chuckling lightly, _Man, she sounds just like Ava._

First, he doesn’t realise what he’s said. He does so when he feels Ian stilling beside him. Mickey looks at him and sees an expression on his face that says that Ian wants to ask—desperately—but he doesn’t know if he should, and that he is about to change topics to spare the both of them. Then Mickey thinks about it a little, and realises it’s okay. It’s not like that night after Terry’s death, when Mickey couldn’t stand the thought of sharing anything about his _new life_ with Ian. It feels different now, feels like everything won’t come immediately crumbling down if he tells Ian something about himself, too.

So he says: “Ava’s my boss, and you know, friend too. A really good friend.”

He couldn’t have just said _friend_. The thought of describing Ava as just a friend seems wrong. But it also feels kind of weird to admit to Ian that he’s not only _friends_ with his _boss_ , but also _good friends._

Ian looks like he doesn’t know what to say, and after a moment says: “Oh. Right. Boss. What—“ he clears his throat, “—do you do, though?”

Mickey finds it endearing and heart-breaking all at once that Ian looks so uncertain asking the question. Like he thinks he doesn’t have a right to and that he _shouldn’t_ , and that if he does, Mickey won’t like it. After he finishes the question, he also looks like he immediately regrets it.

Of all people, _Ian_ should never be worried about asking things from Mickey. But, well. That’s who they are now, apparently.

“Uh. Well, I work at a tattoo shop. I’m a tattoo artist. Who would’ve thought?” Mickey snorts and continues, “Oh and I also work at this, uh, coffee place near the tattoo parlour. Not a barista or whatever, but, like, I manage the books and all. So. Yeah.”

Jesus Christ why are things so fucking _awkward_ sometimes.

For a moment Ian looks dumbfounded and he takes another one to shake himself out of it to say: “Oh. Huh. Guess it isn’t really that surprising, you working as a tattoo artist.”

“Really?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah, I mean, you did like drawing and stuff. Were, uh, pretty good at it too. So. It’s not that shocking. And, you’re good with numbers and shit, too. So again, not surprised,” Ian tells him.

Oh. Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to that. He feels his cheeks tinting pink with an— _extremely_ unwelcome—oncoming blush.

“Oh,” is all he says, looking down.

“Am impressed, though,” Ian says, sounding amused and fond and Mickey _can’t take it._

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, hiding his pleased smile.

Ian laughs a little and says, “No really. It’s, like, _very_ cool, and it suits you. I like it.”

This is too much. _Entirely_ too much. Mickey wants the ground to swallow him up whole. Mickey wants to kiss Ian senseless. Mickey wants to shove Ian. Mickey wants to tell Ian that he loves him. Mickey wants to spend his entire life impressing Ian, making him proud of Mickey.

Fuck him.

Mickey _does_ shove him. Lightly. And again says _Shut up,_ making Ian laugh.

Making him laugh fucking _fondly._

Then Ian asks, “So, how’d you get the job at the tattoo place, then?”

And Mickey replies: “Oh, Ava offered it to me when we met, when she saw me fucking _doodling_ , in her words. I was just drawing shit at a napkin in this bar I found some days after—“

Fuck Mickey’s entire existence, really.

_After we broke up. After_ you _broke up with_ me.

It rings loudly in the sudden silence between them, even if no one said the words. They’re _there_. Like they have their own tangible fucking presence in the dugouts, too.

Now they both stiffen and fall silent. It’s so uncomfortable Mickey wants to _die_ and he’s glad when Ian clears his throat awkwardly after a while and says: “Oh? That’s cool. What about the other job?”

It’s a _very_ welcome change in topics and Mickey latches onto it with both hands and delves into the topic.

By the time he’s done with that uninteresting story, it’s mostly comfortable again and they both segue into other topics.

—

So. They meet.

They meet at the dugouts, and they meet at the abandoned buildings, and they meet in bars (not the Alibi, by some unspoken mutual agreement).

They even go to the movies.

They’re going as _friends_. They’re _friends_ and friends _hang out._ It doesn’t mean _anything_ else and Ava needs to stop with the fucking knowing looks.

Jesus.

—

Ava needs to shut up and fuck off because she doesn’t know about how Ian and Mickey share smokes. She doesn’t know that their fingers linger against each other when there passing the cigarettes. She doesn’t know that Mickey thinks that the only reason they share is to have an excuse to touch each other.

She doesn’t know that when they go to one of their old spots, there are so many moments where it’s obvious that they’re both thinking of the same things. That they’re both remembering them fucking against that fence in the dugouts, they’re both remembering how Ian had fucked Mickey against that wall in one of the buildings. There are moments where they’re both remembering how it felt to be that close to each other, how the heat of the other’s body felt.

There are moments when they secretly remember using the excuse of shotgunning the joints they smoked, just to _almost_ kiss, back when Mickey wouldn’t let them. They remember that time they’d come to the rooftop of one of the buildings, last summer, after Svetlana had taken Yev and they had no responsibilities whatsoever: how they’d kissed and kissed and kissed and laughed and smiled and drank and acted like their age, for once.

She doesn’t know that sometimes they look at each other for a little too long, a little too long for just _friends_. She doesn’t know about the silences that feel loaded and that stretch and stretch and how it feels like they’re both waiting, _dying,_ to say all the things they want to. How they have to cough or move or do _something_ to end them.

Mickey hasn’t told her about how often he has to stop himself from climbing into Ian’s lap and kiss him and kiss him until everything that has happened or might happen goes away. He wants to kiss Ian until all that is left is just _them_ and _here_ and _now_. Mickey doesn’t tell anyone about how sometimes he can’t breathe properly because of the overwhelming _need_ to feel Ian’s hands on his body, that all he wants sometimes is to tell Ian to _fuck him_ until Mickey can’t take it anymore. (Mickey doesn’t think that there’ll ever be a time when he won’t want anything that Ian gives him.)

Mickey hasn’t told Ava that sometimes it looks like Ian wants some, if not all, of those things too.

Ava doesn’t know all that, so she needs to fuck off.

—

Mickey thinks it’s getting kind of ridiculous now.

They can’t keep meeting outside all the time. There’s only so many times they can go to the dugouts or the buildings before it gets tiring.

And Mickey feels ready. It’s the same feeling as that day he’d told Ian about Ava and his jobs: that _it’s okay._ That it’s okay if he takes this step and lets Ian in a little bit more into his life. It’s been months since they’ve been hanging out and it feels good, despite all the things they avoid talking about like the fucking plague (despite the stifling sexual tension).

So, on a Saturday afternoon when they’re planning to meet, Mickey takes a deep breath and sends Ian his address and texts:

_We can hang out at my place today._

It takes about fifteen minutes for Ian to reply with:

_Cool. Should I bring food?_

Mickey sighs in relief, and types back _Yeah, sure._

And, well. That’s done.

—

When Ian comes over, he looks around and there’s an impressed and happy expression on his face. Like he’s happy for Mickey and like he likes the place.

Mickey does _not_ feel pleased by that. Fuck off.

Ian says _Nice place_ and Mickey shrugs and busies himself with getting a coke for Ian and a beer for himself. When he passes the soda to Ian, there’s one of those _looks_ that passes between them: that look that acknowledges the giant fucking elephant in the room. It’s one of those few moments where they’ve come close to the topic of Ian’s bipolar, but made no comment on it.

They move to the couch with their drinks and Mickey asks: “Wanna play Halo?” and Ian says _Fuck yes._

And then it’s all okay.

—

So they start hanging out at Mickey’s place after that.

It’s cool.

It’s what friends do.

Doesn’t mean anything.

—

“So we’re having sleepovers now, are we?” Ava asks, at work.

“Fuck you. They’re not sleepovers. We’re just hanging out.”

“For now.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

—

“Mick,” Ian says one day when they’re at Mickey’s place.

Mickey hums in question, without looking up from the design he’s drawing for a new tattoo.

“Am I imagining shit, or do you have an entire bookcase full of books in your apartment?” Ian asks.

Mickey freezes, a little, and then forces himself to relax because, well, a man is allowed to like his books.

“Yeah. What about it?” Mickey asks, a touch defensive.

“Nothing. Shit, there are _classics_ on that shelf, Mick,” Ian says with a slight chuckle, but it’s not like he’s laughing _at_ Mickey, or like he’s surprised that _Mickey_ apparently _reads_. Mickey relaxes a little bit more.

“Well, I like them, so fuck off,” Mickey says, and looks up to find Ian looking at him, a soft, warm look in his eyes.

Mickey feels his cheeks warm and looks away and, because he doesn’t have functioning brain cells, mumbles, “Reading books and shit helped with the GED too. So, you know. Whatever.”

It would be very nice if someone could install a fucking filter between Mickey’s brain and his mouth.

Ian does look pleasantly surprised by that when Mickey turns towards him to check his reaction and says, “Fuck, you got your GED? That’s great, Mick, really.”

There’s no fluttery feeling. There’s no happy, satisfied feeling, and there sure _as hell_ are no butterflies in anyone’s stomach. Least of all Mickey’s.

When Mickey looks at Ian again (when did he even look down?), he finds that soft, warm, _fond,_ look again, but there’s pride too. There’s also something that looks like… sadness? but it’s gone in a flash and soon Ian is asking what they’re going to eat.

—

After Ian tells Mickey about Fiona’s impending wedding, a silence falls over them that none of them know what to do with.

Mickey knows they’re both thinking about _them_ and _before_ and _you’re gonna marry me? are we gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple of old queens?_

Or maybe it’s just Mickey.

Maybe it’s just always Mickey thinking and feeling these things.

—

Months into their _friendship_ is when it finally happens.

It’s surprising it took this long.

Ian is on Mickey’s couch and he’s upset, telling Mickey about Lip’s problems with alcohol. How worried he is about him. How he doesn’t know how to help Lip.

“It’s just. _Fuck_. I just don’t know what to do. And it’s awful ‘cause it’s _Lip_ , you know? I should be able to do something, but I can’t,” Ian says, frustrated, and rubs his hands over his face.

Ian’s head is leaning back, resting against the back of the couch, and _Mickey_ wants to do something. He wants to comfort Ian, somehow. Somehow make him _not_ upset. Mickey hates seeing Ian like this. Hates it even more when he can’t do anything.

So he gingerly places a hand on Ian’s shoulder and lets it rest there for awhile, hoping it might help.

Ian looks up at him like it does.

“Hey, I know it’s shitty and scary, but Lip isn’t Frank. Lip’s an asshole, yeah, but he’s smart and he cares for you guys, a lot. So just make sure he knows you want him to get your shit together and you guys are there for him, and I’m sure he’ll get his head out of his ass eventually and get the help he needs.”

Mickey gently rubs Ian’s shoulder and looks down at his own lap, unsure whether what he said was right or wrong, whether what he said was stupid. But he doesn’t know what else to say.

Ian grabbing his wrist has Mickey looking up at him.

Mickey doesn’t have too long to decipher the expression on Ian’s face before Ian says: “I’m sorry, Mick,” and Mickey freezes.

He should’ve thought about the fact that what Lip is going through now isn’t very different from what Ian had gone through.

Lip and Frank. Ian and Monica.

Shitty genetics, same old story.

And Mickey _knows_ why Ian is saying sorry. What he’s probably trying to apologise for, and Mickey can’t. Mickey can tell him about Ava and his job and bring him to his apartment, but Mickey still can’t handle hearing Ian apologising for… for everything. So he goes with his flight instinct and tries to move away. Away from the couch, away from Ian, away from everything they have to talk about.

Mickey wants the option to _go away_ , too. Everyone else has it.

Ian’s grip tightens on his wrist, holding him in place. “No, Mick, don’t. Just, please, let me talk about this. Let me say I’m sorry. _Please._ ”

Mickey shakes his head and says, “No. Ian. Forget about it.”

“I can’t! I can’t because you haven’t either. Mickey, we can’t—We can’t do this. We can’t go on like we have for the past few months.”

Mickey’s heart hurts and—“What are you trying to say, Gallagher?”

He _hates_ that his voice shakes a little.

“I’m saying that we can’t be just friends Mickey if I’m always thinking of kissing you. Mickey, we can’t ever be just friends. You _know_ that.”

Mickey just stares at Ian, silent, because he _doesn’t know what to say._

“Mick. We can’t ignore everything that happened. We can’t pretend that I didn’t fuck up in the worst ways possible, can’t pretend that I didn’t hurt you. Because _I did._ I fucked up so much Mick, and we can’t ignore it because.” Ian stops, swallowing.

“Because, what, Ian?” Mickey says, heart in his throat.

“Because I want you, Mickey. I want you back. I want everything with you, and that can’t happen until we—until you choose to forgive me.” Ian says, earnestly looking into Mickey’s eyes.

“Fuck. Ian, what do you want me to _say?”_ Mickey asks, desperate, because _what the fuck is he supposed to do with all this,_ now?

Ian reaches forward and holds both of Mickey’s hands, looking at Mickey with suspiciously shiny eyes.

“I don’t know, Mick. I don’t know what I want you to say. I want you to forgive me, but I know I don’t deserve it. Jesus, fuck, I don’t know if _I_ can ever forgive myself for what I did to you. I—Fuck, I lied and I cheated—“ Mickey closes his eyes at that, and a treacherous, _treacherous_ , tear falls down his cheek. “—and I, God, I forced you to come out. And then I ran away, again and again. Fuck, _I hit you_ because you tried to take care of me,” Ian stops, swallows and continues, shakily, “I messed up so much, Mickey, I messed _us_ up. I messed up the best thing that happened to me. I hurt you so much, Mick, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to take it all back, because I would. God, I would take it all back and do _better_ , if I could.”

Mickey can see tears in Ian’s eyes, see them betray Ian too, and fall down his cheeks. Mickey can’t see Ian hurt, see him cry, even now. Even now when the tears are only there because _he_ hurt _Mickey_ , Mickey can’t stand to see Ian in pain. He wants to tell Ian that it’s okay and that he forgives him, but he also _can’t_ do that. He can’t force those words out of his mouth.

He _knows_ Ian did all that because he was sick, he _knows_ that. He doesn’t hate Ian for any of it, doesn’t blame him. Couldn’t, even if he tried. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s still so _hurt_. It doesn’t take away the pain and mistrust in his heart. Knowing all that doesn’t take away the fear that Ian will leave him again, because nothing Mickey ever does will be enough for him.

Ian lets go of Mickey’s hands and instead cups his face in his hands, and says, “You know, sometimes I think to myself if all those things actually happened. I wonder if I actually did all that to you, because it sounds like someone made this shit up. Because I can’t understand how, with everything I feel for you, with everything I’ve felt for you since we got together, how I did all that. How I _said_ all that. I can’t believe it, Mick, sometimes. But you know how I realise it’s all true and all that shit happened?” Ian asks.

Mickey doesn’t look away from those green eyes, now red-remmed and wet, those green eyes that are so, so _close_ and shakes his head a little.

Ian lets out a bitter, sad laugh and says, “Because _you’re not there_ , Mick. I know I actually did all that to you, because you’re not right there with me, in my bed, in my house. I know it’s true because I can’t kiss you, I can’t touch you the way I want. I know it’s true because _I lost you,_ Mickey. I know it’s true because you left.”

Mickey closes his eyes and feels the deep ache in his chest, realises how laboured his and Ian’s breathing is. How they’re both crying now. Mickey can’t believe that they’re being such pussies right now, but fuck, it _hurts so much_ and he’s so, so scared and he _doesn’t know what to do._

Ian leans his forehead against Mickey’s, and for a moment, they just sit there like that and breathe.

“I need time, Ian. I can’t, I can’t do this right now. I need to think. I can’t. Please,” Mickey says with his eyes closed, shakily, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

Ian nods, slightly, against his forehead. Then he presses a soft, lingering kiss to Mickey’s forehead, and Mickey wants to run away, he wants to scream, he wants to hold onto Ian and never, _ever_ let go. But he can’t.

Ian gets up, and it’s like with every step he takes away from Mickey, some thread tugs at Mickey’s chest, forcing him to go towards Ian, and make sure there’s no ugly distance between them.

At the door, Ian turns around, and says, “I—Um. Take care, Mick. I—I’ll wait for you, always, as long as you need.”

And then he’s gone.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone cares, which i doubt they do, t*rry's funeral and shit was all handled by iggy because he is just that good of brother. neither mickey nor mandy went. mickey hasn't talked to mandy but iggy sent her a message to tell her about t*rry's death. (this is all extra stuff. no mandy in this story, guys, sorry. :/)
> 
> idk if the reunion and everything was good enough. i also don't know if my interactions are OOC or some shit. in my universe, i allow ian and mickey to have Emotions. fuck toxic masculinity y'all. 
> 
> i can't believe i wrote all those words. i don't think i've ever written that many words together. i'm tired. 
> 
> i hope it's... a little bit good at least. ☺️


	8. coming together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they say things.

It takes a week.

In the grand scheme of things, Mickey knows it isn’t a lot. He knows it’s not a lot of time to come to the kind of decision he has to make.

But. Well.

Mickey doesn’t think they’re the kind of people who can stay away from each other too long.

—

The night Ian leaves after… whatever the fuck _that_ was, Mickey doesn’t get a goodnight text. It feels incredibly weird and _disorienting_ to not get a text from Ian after months of getting at least one per day. In the last couple of weeks, they’d been constantly talking and a lot of the times, they’d just fall asleep mid-texting. So no goodnight texts were sent.

But it wasn’t a big deal because they were still _talking._ The goodnight texts and the _hey, Mick_ ’s had been more important back when Ian had first gotten his number, and then when they’d first started warming up to each other, when they were _testing the waters_.

It is a big deal now, though, because they _aren’t_ talking, and Mickey has gotten used to those reminders that Ian is in his life, that Ian thinks about him. To not receive any kind of texts doesn’t feel good, to say the absolute fucking least.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when Ian left, but now he realises that _waiting_ might mean _radio silence_ from Ian until Mickey makes up his mind. He thinks it’s probably because the ginger fuck thinks that he needs to give Mickey _space_ , or some shit like that.

Mickey thinks _space_ between them right now is probably a good thing, he probably needs it to make the decision he has to. But, there’s always so much fucking _space_ between them: be it stints in juvie, the affects of being caught by one’s homophobic prick of a father, or the consequences of being diagnosed with a mental disorder, there’s always _so much fucking space between them._

Mickey _hates_ it, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Or maybe hating that space between them is answer enough as it is about what he should, or wants to, do.

—

Mickey goes to work the next day and even he knows that he looks distracted as fuck.

He doesn’t make any snarky, sarcastic remarks, and isn’t his usual smartass self. He knows all that and he knows he could probably take a few days off, because he hasn’t taken any since he started the job, but he can’t. He can’t fathom the thought of having to stay at home alone with his thoughts. Mickey’s overwhelmed enough as it is and he doesn’t need the silence of his apartment to exacerbate it.

So he’s out of it, but still, the whole process of tattooing someone feels good. As long as he’s working, he isn’t exactly thinking about anything beyond it. It’s calming and grounding. At least for a little bit.

At least for a little bit, he doesn’t have all these _questions_ at the forefront of his mind.

—

This whole distracted-at-work-and-everyone-shooting-him-curious-looks thing goes on for two days before Ava takes matters into her own hands.

Before Mickey’s able to leave the shop for the day, Ava corners him by the exit and says,

“We’re going to your apartment and you’re telling me just what the _fuck_ is up with you.”

And. Okay.

—

They go to Mickey’s apartment after getting some take-out and make themselves comfortable on the couch with the food and bottles of beer. They don’t talk while they eat: the TV providing a welcome distraction from the conversation they’re about to have.

After they’re done and Mickey has thrown away the containers and empty beer bottles, Mickey resettles on the couch and looks at Ava who gives him an expectant, serious, go-on-tell-me look.

So Mickey does.

“Well. Uh. The other day Ian came over,” Mickey starts.

“Oh my _God_. You banged, didn’t you, you slut?” Ava asks, grinning.

“ _What_? Bitch, _no._ What the fuck? No, we did not fuck,” Mickey sputters.

Ava immediately deflates and says in a disappointed tone, “Oh. Well. Continue then.”

“ _Anyway_ , he came over, and he was telling me about his brother. The guy’s having some issues right now and Ian is worried about him, and we were talking about _his brother_ , but some-fucking-how, we ended up talking about _us._ ”

“Oooh. Then?” Ava asks, excited again.

Mickey’s glad his life is so entertaining to her.

No, really, he’s very glad.

“Then. Fuck. Then he just—fucking started _apologising_ out of nowhere. Like, not out of nowhere, because we _were_ talking about us. But still. You know what I mean. I tried to tell him to stop, but he wouldn’t. Said he—“ Mickey stops for a moment.

“Said what?” Ava asks, serious now.

“Said that he wanted to be with me, that we couldn’t be _just_ friends. Said we couldn’t have that if we didn’t figure out our shit first. If I didn’t forgive him first,” Mickey says.

“And what did you say?” Ava asks.

“I said I needed time. To think about it all. And he said he’d wait for me. _Always_ wait for me. Fuck does that even _mean_?”

Mickey’s knows what it means and Ava knows that. So she doesn’t answer. Instead she asks,

“Why didn’t you want to hear him apologise?”

Mickey looks at her for a moment, and then rubs his hands over his face and says, “I don’t know why. Just know that I didn’t want to hear it. It’s—Jesus. I guess it makes it _real_ , you know? All the shit that happened. His apology makes it _real_.”

“But you told me all about what happened. Like, clearly you’ve processed everything that happened between you two, everything that he did, to an extent. So… I’m confused. Didn’t you know already it was all _real_?” Ava asks.

“Yes. Yeah. I knew. But. But it’s _him_ saying it that makes shit worse. I don’t want to hear him say he’s sorry about… about fucking _cheating_ on me. About running away from me. About dumping me. It’s. It’s him talking about all that shit is what I don’t want. I don’t—I don’t have a fuckin’ explanation for it, or whatever. It just feels fuckin’ horrible to hear him admit it all.” Mickey replies.

“Oh,” Ava says.

“Yeah. And him saying it means I have to fuckin’ decide if—if I want to forgive him or not. I don’t want to think about that shit. I just. Why can’t we just fuckin’ go on like we have been for the past few months. And then maybe bang at some point too,” Mickey says, sighing.

“So… you don’t want him to leave you alone forever?” Ava asks.

“Yes. Fucking obviously. Why the hell would I want him to leave me alone forever?” Mickey asks, dumbfounded. In what world would Mickey Milkovich want Ian Gallagher to just _leave him alone_?

Ava smiles at him, touches his hand and says, “Mickey. I think you already know what you want to do.”

Mickey sighs.

He’d have liked it if he _didn’t_ know.

—

Mickey wants to call Ian, text him, ask him to meet Mickey.

(Wants to kiss him and hold him and keep him forever.)

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

So Mickey just goes to work, shakes his head at Ava’s questioning look, and tries to lose himself in anything that isn’t Ian Gallagher related.

—

After five days of doing nothing, Mickey texts Ian and asks him to come over.

Ian replies not even a minute later, with an _Okay._

Okay.

—

Ian shows up, and there’s this… this feeling of _something’s about to happen_ in the air and Mickey doesn’t know what to do.

Actually he does. But well. That’s not the point.

Mickey leads the way to the small dining table and sits and plays with the already opened bottle of beer in front of him. Ian takes a seat at the head of the table and the sit in silence for a moment.

Mickey takes a deep breath and exhales, and then says,

“I’m scared.”

Ian looks up at him with a slightly furrowed brow, and Mickey continues speaking before he can say anything, “Just. Let me say it all, okay?”

Ian nods.

The thing is, Mickey hasn’t prepared a speech, doesn’t have the first fucking clue what _exactly_ he wants to say to Ian. There’s just a jumbled mess of things he’s thought of saying to him, in the past. Things he thought he wanted to say to Ian on nights when he couldn’t sleep because he was thinking about _them_ ; all the times there was that heavy feeling in his chest, or tears in his eyes.

“I—fuck. You left,” Mickey starts, and Ian looks sad and ashamed and also like he’s wondering what specific time that Ian left Mickey is referring to, right now.

“You left when… when the whole marrying Svetlana bullshit happened and. And I felt fuckin’ guilty and ashamed, and like it was my fault you left. I thought that for the longest time. But then I was also mad at you because you didn’t understand. You didn’t understand what—what I meant when I said _Don’t._ Or I was mad that you _did_ understand and still wanted me to say more, when you knew I couldn’t. Knew that it was hard,” Mickey says and he really, _really_ didn’t expect to talk about _this_ of all things.

Ian looks like it’s physically paining him to not say anything.

“But then I realised that we were just fuckin’ kids then, man. We were just fuckin’ _kids_ and all that shit happened to us. Shit we couldn’t have had the first clue how to deal with. So… So I decided to fuckin’ forgive myself and you. To fuckin’ get over it, because, honestly, I don’t see any fucking universe where we dealt with all of… _that_ in any other way. Being who we are and from where. So yeah. Did the _healthy_ thing or whatever, and let go of it,” Mickey says, and there are slight tears in his eyes.

“Mick…” Ian says, like he can’t help it, and then reaches his hand forward to lightly touch Mickey’s, like he can’t help that either.

“Do _you_ forgive me? For everything I said and did, back then?” Mickey asks him, with a lump in his throat.

“ _Of course_ , Mick. Of course. We were kids. Both idiots, I guess. I still am. But yeah. I do,” Ian says, with earnest eyes.

Mickey moves his hand until he’s lightly holding Ian’s.

“You cheated on me,” Mickey says, quietly. Softly. Looking down at their hands.

Ian makes a choked sound in his throat and Mickey looks up to find tears in his eyes, too.

“I’m sorry, Mick. I’m so sorry. I don’t—Fuck. I don’t know what to say other than I’m _really fucking sorry_ ,” Ian says, desperately.

Mickey shakes his head, and tightens his hold on Ian’s hand and says,

“You cheated on me, but you were sick. You made a fuckin’ porno to get _us_ money, when you were sick. Fuck,” Mickey laughs a little. “You went ahead and made a porno to earn money for us. And then you took Yev and ran away, but I know you wouldn’t have let anything happen to the kid. “

“I wanted to take him to Disneyland,” Ian says, quietly.

“See. And then the cops said you were… you were talking about how they were there to take away Yev from you and you couldn’t let that happen. And when you got back from the hospital, you kept calling me and wanted me there with you. _I_ was late, remember? Then you got your meds and took that job at Patsy’s. Then the whole Sammi shit happened. And I was there. I heard what your family said to them about you. About you and Monica. I—I saw you, then. Fuckin’ hate them for all they said that day.” Mickey sniffs.

“And then you ran away with your Mom, came back, and dumped me on your front porch, because you’re a fuckin’ idiot who wanted to protect me or some shit, right?” Mickey asks, looking at Ian.

Ian nods.

“But before all that, you were gonna buy me steak at Sizzlers, weren’t you?” Mickey asks, and they both have tears streaming down their faces now.

“I _was_. Fuck, Mick, I was gonna take you to Sizzlers and—shit. I just wanted us to be _us_ , Mick. That’s all I wanted,” Ian says, with a choked, heartbroken voice.

Ian then adds, “That’s all I still want. Just us. All I’ll ever want.”

Mickey nods, slightly, and then closes his eyes. He feels more tears slip down his face and says, “So. Knowing all that shit, knowing what I just said, I don’t know how to be mad at you. Jesus, I’m so fucking dick-whipped, I couldn’t be mad at you anyway. But. But all that shit happened when you were sick and when you didn’t know how to deal with it. We’re _still_ kids, Ian. _You’re_ still a kid. How could I fucking _not_ forgive you? How could I stay mad at you? Fuck, I don’t think there even _is_ anything to forgive, man,” Mickey says.

He can’t stay mad at Ian. He can’t _imagine_ staying mad at Ian. At the end of the day, it wasn’t any of their fault, exactly. It never is.

Ian nods, and brings their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss Mickey’s hand softly and Mickey’s heart _aches._

“But I’m scared,” Mickey says, in the quiet of the room.

Ian looks at him with questioning, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m scared that someday, something will happen, like it always fucking does with us, and you’ll leave. Again. But you won’t come back. I’m scared I’ll have to wake up one day without you, after getting used to you wrapped around me. I’m scared you’ll get tired of me wanting to take care of you and you’ll tell me that you don’t want me anymore, Ian. I’m fucking terrified of how it’ll hurt like a motherfucking bitch if any of that shit happens,” Mickey tells him, and watches the heartbroken expression on Ian’s face as he processes all of it.

Ian drops his hand and Mickey feels the loss of that touch in his entire _being._

Ian covers his face with his hands and says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mick. Fuck. _Fuck._ I did all this. Oh. God. _I_ did this, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know what to _do_ —“

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey says and Ian immediately shifts his attention to him, and he looks so _sad_ that Mickey’s heart hurts.

“ _Ian_ , I’ve been scared as shit since the first time we slept together, man,” Mickey says with a light chuckle.

Ian looks at him, confused yet the tiniest bit hopeful, and asks, “What are you saying, Mick?”

Mickey says: “I’m scared as shit, Ian, but I still want you, that’s what I’m saying.”

Ian is frozen for a moment and then he _crumbles_ and Mickey can’t see him like this anymore. So, he gets up from his chair that is entirely too far from Ian for his taste, and pulls Ian up too. Ian gets up without any resistance at all, and then Mickey hugs him.

It’s every cliché in the book, honestly: it’s like finally being able to breathe, and it’s like finally being complete, and on and on. It’s _everything_ to hold Ian in his arms again, to be held by Ian, to be this close to him again.

It’s _everything._

Ian holds on to him tightly, and Mickey holds _him_ the same way. They stay like that for a long, long moment, wrapped up in each other in Mickey’s apartment.

_Just us._

Mickey then pulls back and says _let’s go sleep, yeah?_ and Ian nods. Mickey leads him by the hand to his bedroom.

They take off their jeans and lay down in bed, facing each other, and Mickey moves closer closer closer until his face is buried in Ian’s chest and Ian’s arm is tightly wrapped around him.

They fall asleep together.

—

Mickey wakes up on his side, Ian snug against his back and he’s so fucking _happy_ , despite the fact that he’s not even properly conscious. He takes a moment to wake up a little more and clear the sleep from his eyes, and then he turns around in Ian’s arms.

Ian’s already awake, and looking at Mickey with sleepy eyes.

  
He looks content.

  
Mickey imagines he must look the same. It’s how he feels anyway.

“I’ll have to go in about an hour or so. Gotta take my morning pills,” Ian tells him, softly.

Mickey gives him a nod and a soft smile.

In the light of the early morning, they stare at each other.

And then they move together, closer and closer, until their lips connect, and Mickey doesn’t really have the brain capacity to think of metaphors or similes to describe how it feels.

(Morning breath can go fuck itself. They’re not _pussies_.)

They kiss, softly at first. For a long, long while they kiss softly.

It’s beautiful and it’s incredible and it’s _them_ and Mickey _loves it._

They kiss and kiss and soon, the months and months of _nothing_ catch up to them and then the kisses turn harder, fiercer.

_Mickey loves it._

They kiss and kiss and soon, clothes are coming off, and then they’re both naked.

Ian is on top of Mickey and they’re panting heavily. Their lips are red and swollen and their pupils are blown wide and Mickey feels crazy because of how much he _wants_.

Mickey says _Ian_ , not knowing what he’s saying or asking for, and then they’re kissing again and Mickey thinks that’s exactly what he wanted.

Ian’s skin is against his and Mickey doesn’t understand how the _fuck_ he stayed alive without the feel of it. How the fuck he managed to breathe and exist and _function_ without Ian’s body next to him, on him, _with_ him.

Ian’s sucking marks into his neck one moment, and then the next Mickey’s cock is in his mouth and Mickey’s losing his _mind_.

Mickey pleads _Ian Ian Ian fuck Ian_ and Ian gets it because that’s what he does: he _gets_ Mickey and Mickey gets him and it’s perfect.

Ian’s fingers are up Mickey’s ass and Mickey is writhing and begging and he wants _more_ and he’s _ready_ and he _needs_ Ian _._

Ian is in him and Mickey feels so full and complete and Ian is saying _Oh, fuck, Mickey fuck fuck fuck_ like he can’t understand how they stayed apart this long either.

They’re moving together and they’re kissing and they’re moaning and they’re grunting and the headboard is hitting the wall and Mickey can’t believe he’s part of something so _beautiful_.

Ian keeps chanting _Mickey Mickey Mickey_ like he doesn’t know anything else and Mickey _loves_ it.

It goes on and on and on and it builds and builds and builds until Mickey is screaming Ian’s name and coming coming coming and Ian is kissing him and moaning into his mouth and he’s coming too and Mickey doesn’t think at all for a bit.

They cursorily clean themselves up, and then lie next to each other on the bed, catching their breath. Then they look at each other and they’re kissing again.

Ian pulls away a little and looks into Mickey’s eyes and Mickey knows what he’s going to say just by the look in his eyes. Ian says, “Mickey, I love you,” like he can’t keep it in any longer, like he needs to say it and like it’s the simplest truth of them all and Mickey doesn’t think it’s possible to feel _so much_ for someone.

Mickey looks at Ian and says, “I love you,” and this time it doesn’t hurt at all to say it.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, ian took his pills on time. he's sexy like that. ;)
> 
> there'll probably be an epilogue next and then... the end. or not. who knows?
> 
> also please ignore any mistakes i'm too lazy of a human to properly edit shit.


	9. weddings, surprises, and warmth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are a lot of surprises, and a lot of hand-holding, and it's cold but it's warm, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me, making up for the lack of... everyone else in the final chapter.

Fiona’s wedding is a disaster.

Mickey thinks he isn’t as surprised about that as most people would be. But then, most people don’t grow up in the Southside, and most people are also not intimately familiar with the Gallagher family’s particular brand of chaos. So, yeah. Mickey isn’t really surprised.

He also isn’t surprised that it was Frank Gallagher that started it all.

What _was_ surprising though, was finding out that his, now ex, wife was probably-most-likely in a fucking _threesome_ with his sorta-maybe-kind of friend, Kevin, and his wife. Like, sure, Mickey knew that he’d been away from the Southside for quite a while, and had particularly avoided the Alibi, but _fuck_ , a _threesome_ , really? Kevin, Veronica and Svetlana? When Mickey had seen the three kiss (seriously, _what the fuck?_ ), he’d felt the _very_ strong impulse to fucking gape like a fish, but had successfully controlled his face enough to _only_ raise his eyebrows incredulously.

Mickey doesn’t think he can ever control his eyebrows.

Ian had looked like he didn’t know what to do with what he was witnessing and its implications, which, yeah: _fair enough._

Svetlana seemed happy, though, and she’d (again, _surprisingly_ ), given Mickey a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Kevin had bro-hugged him and Veronica had looked at him, sternly but… _fondly?_ and said in a tone which very much reminded Mickey of his Mom, “Don’t disappear like that again, you hear me?”

Mickey couldn’t do much else but nod.

Ian looked like he was amused, but very happy, too. Then the fucker had kissed Mickey on the cheek, _in front of everyone,_ and Mickey had blushed.

Mickey hates him.

Mickey doesn’t know if he found it surprising or not that the Gallaghers didn’t seem shocked at all by his appearance. Mostly, they acted as if Mickey had been there all along and no break-ups had taken place on their front porch. But then there was Fiona giving him a small, private smile with a look in her eye like she was happy Mickey was there, and was sorry for what had happened; there was Lip giving him a nod, and then a little punch to the arm, which again felt like it translated into _I’m glad you’re here_ , but also: _I didn’t like what happened and I’m sorry for it._

Mickey didn’t know what to do with any of that.

Mickey especially didn’t know what to do with Debbie, with a fucking _baby_ of her own, choosing to come stand next to him, out of everyone else in the room, and standing close enough to touch. Like she _wanted_ to stand next to him, like she was seeking _comfort_ from his presence. She’d then looked at him, so desperately sad and guilty, like she was begging for forgiveness. Mickey didn’t get why she was so sorry. But then again, he wasn’t clueless enough to not know that Debbie _did_ like him, saw him as the older brother, and friend, that she couldn’t find in Lip or Ian.

The apology on her face could have been about anything: Sammi coming after Mickey and him almost going to jail for something they _both_ did, or about the fact that her brother broke Mickey’s heart.

Mickey thought that either way, it was fucking stupid and that there was no need to apologise for anything at all. So he’d turned to her, raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly and asked, while nodding towards the child strapped to her: “So, Franny, huh?”

A relieved smile had broken over her face, and for the first time since she’d come in, she looked like the child that she actually was.

Mickey’s heart broke a little. Fucking redheaded Gallaghers. Jesus.

But it wasn’t just the redheads, no. Liam, for some un-fucking-identifiable reason, fucking _beamed_ at Mickey and moved to stand in front of Mickey and leaned on his legs a little, too.

So, basically, Mickey Milkovich had Debbie Gallagher on one side, Ian Gallagher on the other, and tiny little Liam Gallagher in front of him. He had to bite his lips to keep a giant fucking smile off his face.

Mickey thinks Ian might’ve caught him though.

Well, fuck him.

Carl, though, was everything Mickey needed in these confusing times: just a fist-pump and a _Sup, bro?_ and that’s all. Thank fuck for Carl.

So, after Mickey had been through all of _that_ , the fact that Frank Gallagher crashed his daughter’s wedding and revealed to everyone that her soon-to-be-wedded husband was a junkie? Yeah. Not surprising at all.

Didn’t mean it didn’t make Mickey’s heart break, seeing Fiona so distraught, when she’d looked so happy only moments before. That it wasn’t awful to see Ian hear those things from Frank. Didn’t mean he liked seeing the faces of the rest of the Gallaghers as they heard their own father ramble on and on, with no thought for how his words were affecting his children.

It wasn’t surprising, but it was horrible.

Mickey had held Ian’s hand through it all, and he’d felt him squeeze his hand tighter and tighter as Frank’s speech continued. Debbie and Liam had also gravitated even closer to him, and, like the soft motherfucker he’d become, Mickey had wanted to scoop up his little band of Gallaghers and take them far, far away from Frank and all his shit.

And also punch the living daylights out of Frank while he was at it. Lip beat him to the punch, though. Quite literally.

He’d wanted to go help Kev and Ian calm down Lip (and, also, try and punch Frank again) but then there were Liam and Debbie, so he’d stayed with them and let Debbie hold his hand, and let Liam cling to his legs and placed his hand on top of Liam’s tiny head.

This was what Mickey Milkovich, badass Southside thug, was reduced to.

He was, _surprisingly,_ okay with it. More than, actually. But that’s neither here, nor there.

—

Mickey had, obviously, helped everyone throw Frank in the water.

After, Ian had taken his hand and asked him, “Wanna go for a walk?”

Mickey had nodded.

So here they were now, walking through the streets of the Southside, that were surprisingly empty and quiet. They’d been walking in silence for a while now, and Mickey’s mind oscillated between hoping that the other Gallaghers were okay, and wanting to check up on them ( _fuck’s sake_ ), and feeling a contentment in his chest like he’d never felt before.

The more they walked, the more the contentment spread, until all other thoughts were driven from Mickey’s mind and he was just here.

Here, walking with Ian in the cold, quiet, _peaceful_ , streets of Southside Chicago, hand in hand. Here, feeling the warmth of Ian’s touch, and the warmth of his frequent glances at Mickey. Here, feeling that warmth spread, spread, spread through his body, until it was filling him up so completely that he forgot that it was cold for the world outside his little bubble with Ian.

Mickey realises that he’s had a small smile on his face for a while now.

He’s okay with it.

They stop a few blocks from the Gallagher house, near an empty park, and enter it.

It’s quiet. It’s so, _so_ quiet and it’s so cold and Ian’s in front of him and Mickey is so happy he feels like he’ll burst.

He feels _complete_ , and he feels _happy_ , and he forever wants to stay in this abandoned park in the Southside with Ian Gallagher.

Mickey thinks he’s very gay. He doesn’t mind it at all.

Ian brings up one hand to cup one of Mickey’s cheeks, the other still holding Mickey’s hand. Ian looks him in the eye, and they stand there staring at each other quietly and it’s so fucking creepy and weird. Mickey loves it.

Ian lets go of his hand, and Mickey only has a moment to mourn the loss of its warmth before Ian brings it up so that he’s cradling Mickey’s face in his giant fucking hands and Mickey is so in love it hurts. It hurts in the best way possible.

Mickey thinks he’d like to spend the rest of his life feeling that kind of hurt.

Ian looks at Mickey and Mickey looks at Ian, and their faces come closer closer closer together, until there’s only a few centimetres between their lips. Ian says, still looking at Mickey with so much love in his eyes that Mickey _almost_ wants to look away,

“One day, I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

Mickey’s heart _soars_ and he doesn’t understand how he can hold all that he feels for this man inside him, and _still_ be alive and intact.

Mickey tells him, “And I’m going to say yes.”

Ian kisses him, and when they're finally able to pull away, they go home.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't really believe this is the end. i haven't fully processed the fact. yet. wish me luck for the Emotions i'll experience whenever i process it completely. 
> 
> i don't know how to thank you all for all the comments that I've read and reread so many times I've lost count. every single one of you that commented and left kudos, and gave a fuck about this story, thank you so fucking much. i fucking love you. you da best.
> 
> i haven't ever really written this much. it's... *surprising* ;) and i'm kinda proud of myself. 
> 
> i want you all to know, again, that i read every single comment and appreciate it more than anything, even if i don't reply for one reason or the other, i'm grateful beyond measure. thank you SO much. 🥺
> 
> oh and, in the story, it's been a few months since the last chapter. i don't need to say that things aren't perfect, because they never are. ian and mickey are VERY much in love, though, because they don't know how to be anything else with each other. 
> 
> so yeah. this is it, i guess. 
> 
> i love you. 
> 
> bye.


End file.
